


A Thread To Hold

by Nagaem_C



Series: Needles and Pins [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Art, Embroidery, F/M, First Kiss, Holidays, M/M, Meet the Family, POV Alternating, Post-Reichenbach, Slow Build, United States
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 74,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaem_C/pseuds/Nagaem_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is still struggling to reconcile his flatmate's declaration of feelings with his own emotional turmoil.<br/>Anna Clark is settling into a new home and a fresh start in Chicago—but her heart has made a home far away, with Greg Lestrade.<br/>Two threads, on two continents, pulling together once more in an unexpected way...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John - November 27

**Author's Note:**

> NOT a stand-alone - you should really read the first story, Stitching Up the Tears, to get to know Anna Clark and how she managed to wind up in Sherlock's circle.
> 
> Some locations used in the story are real, and some fictional: Halcyon Gallery and other features of Anna's neighborhood in Chicago are my invention.

**1\. John - November 27**  


.

 

"No, Sherlock, I don't trust you!"

The atmosphere at 221B Baker Street was tense, as it so often had been in recent weeks. October's uneasy detente was deteriorating, four weeks later, into what John Watson would probably have called a series of childish squabbles, had he not been actively participating as one of the children. 

John recoiled, twisting his neck away from the test tube being thrust at him.

"Just smell it, John. It's nothing harmful," said his flatmate, voice muffled slightly by the white mask covering mouth and nose.

"So says the man who once drugged me to prove a theory. Nope, sorry. Not going to give you the pleasure."

 _"Once,"_ Sherlock insisted, in a vaguely pleading tone. His expression was partially hidden by the mask, but John could see his eyebrows drawing together in a familiar statement of frustration.

"Sorry—I should say, once that I _know_ of!" John waved a flapping hand at the encroaching test tube as if to shoo a fly, and stood abruptly out of his armchair, forcing the taller man to retreat a stumbling step. Watching the abrupt manner in which Sherlock fought to regain his balance and keep control of the tongs in his hand, John felt entirely justified in his refusal to cooperate. _Bored he may be, but I'm too tired for this right now,_ he thought as he stormed out of the room and down the hall. Pulling the mobile from his jeans pocket, he closed the bathroom door on Sherlock's continuing protests and pecked out a text message.  
**Fancy a pint? I've got to get away. -JW**

The response took a few minutes to arrive; John filled the time by splashing cold water on his face and towelling off. He leaned towards the mirror, grimacing and pulling with his fingertips at the puffy circles under his eyes. _Not getting any younger, Watson,_ he sighed to himself, brushing at the bits of grey hair cropping up among the toffee blond.

**Sure, I've got nothing on. Haven't seen you in a few weeks anyway. When do you want to meet? -GL**

**I'll be at our usual in fifteen minutes. See you whenever you can get there. -JW**

**Right. -GL**

 

.

 

John was already working on his second lager, seated in the booth that allowed his habitual vantage point of both entrances, when he noted Greg's arrival. The detective inspector raised his chin in response to John's nod, stopping at the bar and acquiring his own pint before making his way over. Seating himself, he gave the doctor a critical look up and down. "So, it's barely three, I took less than a half hour getting here and you're obviously already one in. What's he done now?"

John grunted into his glass. "Experimental odour synthesis, or possibly trying to see if he can camouflage the scent of chloroform. I didn't stick around for the full explanation of what he was jamming in my face. Tell me you'll find him a new case soon, Greg."

"Doing what I can, but I can't just make it happen. All the criminals of late have been incredibly dull, you know Sherlock wouldn't stand for it."

"Nothing less than a seven. Yeah." John took another swig, tilting his head back and letting his eyelids fall shut as the crisp brew slid down his throat.

"You been getting enough rest, mate?" Greg's gravelly voice roused him, and he opened his eyes to a look of friendly concern.

"It's nothing," he muttered, shrugging.

"John," the other man prompted, a bit more sternly.

John sighed in response. He knew that Greg Lestrade, of all people, wouldn't let it lie. The two of them had been through enough together, coping with the loss of Sherlock Holmes and the repercussions of his return, that each of them well knew the signs of the other's distress. _Of course he can tell the nightmares are back._ "Fine, yes. You know."

"How often?"

John ducked his head to avoid his friend's sympathetic gaze. "Most nights now," he admitted reluctantly.

"I thought that'd gotten better the last few months. And what about—" Greg cut himself off suddenly.

Still examining the scarred and weathered tabletop, John asked, "What about what?"

"Um. Well." Greg took a hasty swallow of beer, obviously trying to cover his embarrassment. "Anna told me Sherlock had..."

John's mouth twisted in a painful approximation of a smile. "Ah. I'd almost forgotten she knew about that. Hell, she probably put the idea in that great idiot's head, in the first place. Well, I've got nothing to report there."

Greg responded quickly in a placating tone. "John, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. None of my business, hey? But—look, she was worried about you two. If you're right and she's to blame for making things uncomfortable for you, I know she'll be kicking herself."

"Speaking of Anna." _And changing the subject; I so don't want to examine those feelings right now._ "What happened? I was surprised she went home so suddenly."

It was Greg's turn to grimace. "It wasn't my doing. An old friend of hers died unexpectedly, and she needed to go home to deal with some things. He left her a house, apparently."

"A house? Seems a bit excessive, how close was this friend?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"They were best mates for over twenty years. And from what Anna's told me since she's been home, the guy had a few properties; he was renting a couple houses out. All of the larger assets went to family, and a classic car went to his boyfriend, but this little place is hers now. It was a touching gesture, really, she said they'd fought and hadn't spoken in seven years or so."

John studied his friend over the rim of his glass. "So you two are still in touch, then."

"Yeah!" Greg flashed a bright smile, and his eyes unfocused for a moment in a pleasant memory before he snapped back to attention. "We talk about twice a week. I'm planning to visit her in a few weeks for Christmas. If all goes well, hopefully she'll be visiting here again next year, too."

"That's good, she's a sweet girl. And you're obviously besotted," John said approvingly, giving Greg's elbow a teasing nudge.

"Sweet isn't the half of it. Talented, attractive, caring, _smart_ —who else has Sherlock ever dragged around and introduced as his 'assistant'?" Greg grinned, nudging back.

John drained the last of his lager. "Thankfully I always rated 'colleague' at the least. And you're right, it certainly was surprising how Sherlock took to her."

"Anna's surprising, all right." With a chuckle, Greg stood and went to fetch another round. When he returned, he inquired, "So, I thought Sherlock was already working on a case right now? He emailed me just yesterday for access to my top IT guy. Didn't mention what it was about."

"Hm, we definitely don't have a new client. I think he might just be doing some more follow-up on that forgery and data theft case. I don't know if it's something that really needs done, or if he's just bored enough to keep picking at it."

Greg hummed thoughtfully. "Well, maybe he's just not satisfied he's found the top of the totem pole, eh? You'd probably know more than me, though. Anna was a little vague on how that all turned out, and then we were kind of in our own little world there for that last week before she flew home."

John shot a knowing look at his friend, but let the opportunity for another teasing comment pass as he thought back on the recent past. "I admit, I haven't really been on top of what Sherlock's been up to in the last few weeks. We had that inheritance dispute week before last, and then there was a mistaken identity client early last week. Neither of those kept him occupied more than a day..." He trailed off at Greg's probing expression and pressed his lips together. _Damn. I really have been avoiding him, haven't I?_

"I know it's hard," the other man said quietly. He ran a hand over his short, silvered hair and then hunched slightly forwards, clasping both hands around his half empty glass. "You might not be giving him much of a chance, though, John."

A tired sigh escaped John's lips and he unconsciously mimicked Greg's posture. "It's all well and good to say 'give him a chance', but you know as well as I do...when you're actually in the same room as Sherlock your plans go out the window."

"Too right," Greg agreed ruefully. "But you've always had a better handle on him than anyone. You're just messed up 'cause you're not sleeping right, I reckon." 

What the older man carefully didn't say rang like a series of bells inside John's head: _because Sherlock left. Because he made you watch him kill himself. Because you mourned him for three full years before he came back and expected everything to be just fine._ John eventually managed to speak around the sudden lump in his throat. "I'll keep trying. All right?"

"All right. Look, I'm gonna get going, I had an errand or two to run and I don't get another day off 'til next Tuesday. I'm always around if you need to talk, though, yeh?" Greg rested a hand briefly on John's shoulder as he stood.

"Yeah, okay. I should get back, too. Thanks, Greg."

 

.

 

John's head buzzed a little as he embarked on the walk back to Baker Street. _I'll keep trying. Trying to do what?_ His steps faltered a bit, and he stopped in front of a shop window, pretending to browse while he gathered his thoughts. He stared into the glass blindly, looking through his own worn reflection but seeing the familiar dark curls and aristocratic silhouette of Sherlock Holmes in his mind's eye. As his focus shifted, the dark red windbreaker on the shop mannequin made a bloody smear around his reflected head, and John shuddered, turning quickly away.

At that moment he felt a buzz from his pocket.

**Before you return, procure rubbing alcohol. Milk would not go amiss either. -SH**

Shaking his head and gritting his teeth, John stumped off towards the grocery.

 

\-----

 


	2. Anna - November 29

  
**2\. Anna - November 29**   


.

 

A shrill metallic squeal echoed across the deserted parking lot as Anna heaved up the rolling door, revealing the storage unit beyond. She stood at the threshold, hands on hips, surveying the stacks of boxes and miscellaneous furnishings that comprised her old life. _Here it all is, I guess,_ she thought with a sigh. The chilly wind buffeted her, swirling in and out of the little enclosure; she distractedly picked a wayward piece of long brown hair out of her face and tucked it back into her ponytail.

A shout from behind drew her attention. "Am I close enough?" She turned to see Ryan's head poking out the window of her blue Honda, slowly inching the small U-Haul trailer backwards towards the garage.

"Yeah, that's fine," Anna called back, waving. She returned her attention to the boxes, picking her way towards a stack against the right-hand wall as the younger of her two brothers parked the car and opened up the trailer.

Ryan stopped a few steps into the storage unit. "There's no _way_ you're taking all of this stuff back to Chicago with you in this little trailer," he scoffed, pulling a knit cap over his mussed hair.

She laughed at his put-upon expression. "Of course not, dummy. I haven't got anyone to help me out up there, so I don't want to do it all at one time. I can take till the end of the year to clean this out—I figure I can get another big load when I come back down to Columbus at Christmas, probably take all the larger stuff then."

"Oh, yeah, that's when you'll have your boyfriend here, huh? Bet he'll love lugging your furniture around for you."

Anna felt an unbidden blush rising. "Don't tease, Ry."

"Hey, okay, sorry. You know I only tease because I care," he responded, hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I have to say, I was surprised. I didn't picture you getting involved with anyone else after David. Not that it's a bad thing!" he amended quickly, at Anna's sharp look.

Resisting the urge to fall back on big-sister tactics and give Ryan a hard pinch on the shoulder, she huffed and lifted a heavy box into his arms instead. "I didn't picture it either. Honestly, the last thing I wanted to do was get tied up in something. What do you think selling my house, shoving all my stuff into storage and flying out of the country was, if not determination to get away from every attachment?" Picking up a second box, she followed her brother up into the trailer.

"Well," his voice echoed off the metal walls, "this guy Greg must be something special. When Anna Faber Clark makes up her mind, she's pretty damn stubborn about it."

"Thanks, I think!"

 

.

 

The two siblings worked efficiently for a few minutes, with Anna pointing out which boxes were most important to pack. She paused, contemplating the Ott lamp she used for her embroidery work, and picturing a very different lamp in her mind's eye—along with a vivid image of the handsome man she associated with it.

"So, you really don't need any of this big furniture yet?" Ryan's voice jolted her from her memory.

"No, Andy's house is pretty well furnished. I'm going to have to spend a few months cleaning things out, and in a few weeks I should have room for my own favorite pieces...but I don't need them right away," she replied.

Ryan shrugged and picked up another box. "I still think it's weird you're living in your dead friend's house. With his stuff, too? How are you not creeped out?"

"For one thing, do you remember how close we used to be?" Anna asked, grabbing the lamp and stepping up into the trailer. "We practically had the same taste...at least in some things. And it's surprising how much of what he kept there was stuff that had memories for us, or things I bought him. Being in that house is almost like having Andy back." _Besides, how much of this here is my dead husband's stuff? Might as well just surround myself with all of it,_ she thought wryly.

Ryan stubbed his toe on a coffee table as he carried out the last box marked DISHES. "Oww!—So how long had it been since you saw Andy?"

"About eight years since the last time David and I drove to visit him—that's when he was still living in New York, working at that art gallery. You remember that trip, that's when we bought you and Justin those whale watercolors..."

"Oh yeah. Maybe I should actually hang mine up."

They exchanged rude faces over their boxes as a matter of long habit, then Anna continued. "We had a fight at the end of that trip because Andy was high. A couple of his lowlife friends barged in right before we were all supposed to go out to dinner...It wasn't fun. The last time I talked to him on the phone was about a year after that."

"Rough," Ryan commented, sympathetically.

"Well, his little sister Natalie—she's a lawyer now, did I tell you?—said he'd been in rehab a couple times in the last few years. At least he was trying, you know? ...I do wish I'd called him. I just didn't trust him anymore." With one last deep sigh, Anna reached up for the strap and dragged the trailer door closed. "All right, that'll do it; time to drive. Thanks for helping, baby bro! Give Amanda and Kyle hugs for me, and tell Mom I'll call when I get to the house, it should be eleven or so."

Ryan returned his sister's hug before closing and locking her storage unit and making his way towards his own car. "Stay safe, Banana. See you at Christmas."

 

\-----

 


	3. John - December 4

  
**3\. John - December 4**   


.

 

A short gasp, a long, shuddering inward breath—then utter silence.

It had become habit years ago: when Captain Watson first found himself suffering nightmares in his convalescent bed alongside the other wounded soldiers, many of whom were in worse condition than himself, he had become incredibly self-conscious about being heard. John had been unable to stop the bad dreams, but eventually had gained the ability to exert some control over his reactions. Now, with years of practice under his belt, he instinctively stifled himself to silence the moment he awoke, regardless of his surroundings. 

John held his breath, eyes wide and pulse pounding in his ears, fearfully wondering if he had cried out before waking—the one thing he never knew if he'd done. Letting his lungs empty in a thin, controlled stream, he clutched fistfuls of his sheets and stared up at the square of moonlight on his bedroom ceiling. He blinked away the gathering tears, trying vainly to clear his head. The latest iteration of his subconscious torment lingered like a glowing afterimage. _I pushed him. I stood behind him, and I pushed him this time. And there was blood on my hands as he fell screaming..._

A few more steady, slow breaths, a rough scrubbing of hands over his face, and John was able to shift his focus to the rest of 221B. _Silence: that's good. Or is it?_ He stiffened at the mental image of Sherlock poised outside his bedroom door, deciphering each tiny noise from John's room and fitting the pieces together into a picture of a broken man. _No,_ he assured himself, _no, he's not there. He's downstairs fiddling with his microscope, or reading, or categorising burn patterns. Or maybe using my laptop. He has no reason to be listening to me sleep._

Though John had the restless urge to get up immediately, he didn't want his flatmate to see him awake at odd hours and wonder why. Sitting up in the darkness, he reached over for the glass of water he'd placed on the nightstand. His hand shook as he brought it to his lips; to further calm himself, he began to silently recite medical school mnemonics. He worked his way from the extremities inwards, and got as far as naming the cranial bones before the mental image of the skull transformed itself into a broken head on pavement. His fragile calm gave way to a sudden flash of white-hot anger— _Maybe he isn't even down there, the utter prat_ —preceding a bolt of fresh fear. _Maybe he's up and left. Maybe I'm going crazy and he hasn't even been back these five months and—no, STOP that!_ he scolded himself, setting the glass down and throwing himself back onto his side in frustration. Grabbing a pillow and wadding it roughly into a ball under his neck, John gritted his teeth and prepared to wait out another sunrise.

 

.

 

Daylight found Sherlock seated at the small table in the living room, intently scrolling through something on John's laptop. _Hm, right on the fourth guess,_ John thought mildly, as he padded over to the counter and started the kettle for tea. Reaching into the cabinet for two mugs, he glanced over his shoulder at the younger man. "Morning, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised his head and turned it toward the window and back, the gesture plainly stating that he had been too engrossed to notice the sun had risen. "Mm. Apparently."

Silence prevailed again until John brought out the tea and offered the second mug. "What's got you so interested?" he inquired, when Sherlock failed to make a move to take it from him.

"I'm tracing digital signatures on coded message board postings. One of these is matching up with the signature I found in the messages from Gretchen Barrymore's blackmailer." Sherlock finally glanced up and reached over for his tea, meeting John's eyes for only a split second before looking away.

"Ah." John moved back out of reach and sat down in his armchair. "So you _are_ still working on the forgery case. I thought they'd already brought charges against the guy who blackmailed the surgeon's wife?"

"Yes, but here he was in communication with multiple others. It's plain he wasn't the instigator of the actual data theft, by any stretch," Sherlock replied, clicking between tabs. "It's been a slow process, but I now have access to better information. I'm finding repeated references to something called 'TDK' spread over multiple sources worldwide...there's a cipher in use in some of these messages that is quite intriguing..." He trailed off into quiet muttering that was no longer directed at his companion.

John picked up a newspaper from the side table, using it as a cover to surreptitiously study the other man's profile. He ran his eyes over the tousled curls and decidedly not-bloody temple, and followed the line of the long neck into the rumpled blue dressing gown while suppressing a wholly irrational impulse to place his fingers against the pulse point in Sherlock's jaw. He swallowed a tiny sigh, turned the page without seeing any of the words, and sipped at his tea. _I should check to see if they've decided they need me at the surgery today. Maybe I can get out of here for a while._ Lowering the paper, he craned his neck around but failed to find what he was looking for. "Sherlock, have you seen my phone?"

The detective stilled his typing, reaching into the pocket of his gown after a pause and producing John's phone. He stretched his arm out behind him without taking his eyes from the screen, offering the device wordlessly.

"Right. Of course," John muttered, leaning over to take it. "Do I even want to know?" Not receiving a reply, he unlocked the screen, unsurprised to see the text messaging application open.

 _I could ask again, but he doesn't seem to be in much of an answering mood today. I suppose I should just be glad he gave it back._ Unable to help his curiosity, John pulled up Sent Messages—and found nothing new. _Hm. He sent something and then deleted it? Or was he just looking at my messages?_ The thought sent a little frisson of feeling down his spine, and he realised he was clenching the phone with whitened knuckles. He forced himself to physically relax as much as possible, glancing up again at Sherlock, who was still silently typing and had shown no sign of noticing.

As he looked over his contact message threads, the one most important name burned at the top of his screen. John didn't open it, but knew the contents saved in that thread by heart—most especially one particular series of messages from almost eight weeks ago. _Maybe I should have deleted them? Maybe he was checking to see that it was still there?_ Briefly, John wondered whether the detective had actually kept the record of that conversation preserved on his own mobile as well, or whether he had decided to mostly erase from his memory the declaration of his "overwhelming sentiment". John's own reaction to the message that day had been mixed, and although he still burned with embarrassment at his own awkward, noncommittal responses, he hadn't deleted any of the thread. He had, however, avoided scrolling all the way back up to those messages—aside from a few times, in moments of weakness. And, for the most part, he had successfully avoided thinking too deeply about the messages themselves.

 _Greg's right, I haven't given half a chance to Sherlock lately,_ John thought with dismay. _I told him that day I couldn't talk about it over texts, that we needed to continue it in person—and then, God, have I even talked to him about anything but cases or tea since?_

Furrowing his brow, John set his mug aside. "Sherlock..."

The taller man straightened from his slight hunch over the computer. He deliberately, elegantly swivelled his head around, meeting John's eyes directly for the first time that day. "Yes, John?"

Pinned by the pale, almost otherworldly gaze, John felt his mouth go dry, and the words evaporate in his throat. Swallowing with difficulty, he forced words past his lips that were very different from those he'd hoped to say: "...I'm off to the shops in a little while. Is there anything you want me to get?"

 

\-----

 


	4. Anna - December 8

  
**4\. Anna - December 8**   


.

 

Anna stumbled a little on the basement stairs when she heard the ringing of her cell phone. Hoisting her laundry basket higher in front of her, she hurried the rest of the way to the living room, dropping the load unceremoniously on the sofa to grab the phone on its third ring. "Hello?" she answered, a bit breathlessly.

"Anna, love, glad I caught you!" The voice on the other end was smooth with a gravelly edge, and sent an immediate rush of warmth through her.

She laughed, suddenly giddy and smiling. "Just barely! I almost lost it on the stairs just now with my laundry, I'm not quite used to this place yet. How are you, sweetie?"

Greg replied, chuckling, "Just got off work, so, tired and hungry. I'm actually in a cab right now on my way to pick up a curry to take home, but I just couldn't wait any longer to call."

"Well—it's probably a good thing you didn't wait," Anna said, casting her eyes up at the wall clock over her kitchen doorway. "I'm leaving in less than a half hour, that appointment I made is at twelve thirty."

"Oh, yeah, the art gallery, right! That's great."

She tucked the phone between her cheek and shoulder, folding clothes while she talked animatedly. "Yeah, I don't know if it'll come to anything, but it's pretty lucky I found it in the first place. Andy's ex-boyfriend used to work over at Halcyon Gallery, and he told me about it when he came over to pick up the car Andy left him. I mean, can you believe that there's an art gallery right in the same neighborhood as me that deals exclusively in antique and contemporary fiber arts?"

"It's amazing, and I'm certain your work will be a great addition there! I'm really glad you've decided to take a chance with this, and do something with the things you love instead of just looking for a new office job right away," Greg told her proudly.

"Haha, well, let's see if this gallery owner feels the same way! I don't know if my portfolio is very strong, to be honest, as far as what I could turn over right away. Some of my best work isn't in my possession anymore..."

"And I'm sure nobody on the planet would be willing to part with an Anna Clark original embroidery they'd been gifted. I know I wouldn't give mine up for the world." Anna could hear the smile in Greg's voice. "Oh, I almost forgot why I called!"

"Thought you just couldn't go four whole days without hearing my voice," she teased.

That brought a laugh, followed by a rustle and increase of background noise—Greg was getting out of the cab. "That too, but I've got the details for my flight to give you. Less than two weeks now, love!" There was another pause while he paid the driver.

Anna strode over to the side table by the front window, where she had begun keeping a notepad. As she took down the information Greg read out, she glanced out at the street, momentarily puzzled to notice a dark green sedan parked directly in front of the house. The occupant of the car was facing her, a shadowy figure holding something up in front of its face. She idly twitched the sheer curtain panel aside a few inches to get a better look, and the car immediately pulled away.

"Hm."

Greg stopped mid-sentence. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing," Anna replied. "Just looking at something outside. Repeat the gate number, would you?"

 

.

 

Anna loosened her scarf as she walked the six blocks or so to the Halcyon Gallery. The weather was unseasonably warm for early December in Chicago, and she was taking advantage of the probably brief spike in temperatures to familiarise herself with the streets of her new Bridgeport neighbourhood. The closely spaced homes, varied in style and size, provided a quaint atmosphere to the tree-lined streets. Her own new home was an unassuming and compact Cape Cod, tucked up tightly next to a two-story brick building and hiding a narrow, fenced strip of yard in the rear. It had weathered white siding, a chunky bay window, and a kitschy maroon aluminum awning over the compact concrete porch. _It's adorably retro, and it fits right in here. I can see why Andy liked it._

Hitching her large bag up on her shoulder, she paused and surveyed the display window of her destination: a colonial-era alphabet sampler and a few mannequins wearing antique embroidered clothing shared space with a bright mixed-media woven hanging, felted vessels and some framed embroidered artworks. The overall effect was cheerful and eclectic. Smiling nervously, Anna took a deep breath and entered the gallery.

Frank Hammond was tall and almost painfully skinny, with pale gray hair that thinned on top and was gathered into a stringy ponytail in back. Anna studied him from across the exhibition space while he finished up with a client, mentally wrinkling her nose at the odd combination of a navy suit jacket and slacks paired with a garish farm-style plaid shirt. _Oh god, are those loafers without socks?_ She got over most of her uneasiness, though, when Mr. Hammond turned his megawatt smile on her and started discussing her artwork. He was really quite knowledgeable about all things fiber-related, and made positive comments when looking at Anna's photos and the few smaller pieces she'd brought along with her.

"Miss Clark, I have to say, your material is well suited to the work we like to sell," he eventually told her. "We're full right now with the special historical exhibit going on, but that ends in a few weeks. How about we meet again after the holidays and discuss the details and commission terms? I'll call you."

"That would be great! Thanks, Mr. Hammond, for taking the time to meet with me today."

"The pleasure's all mine. And call me Frank," he insisted with a hawkish grin. He reached forward, offering his hand to shake.

Anna couldn't help but notice the small tattoo on Frank's wrist; her eye was drawn to the dark purple splotch as it emerged from his plaid cuff. _This guy is full of surprises, huh? Maybe he's entirely covered in body art under that wacky outfit!_ She returned the handshake gladly and left the gallery with a smile and a spring in her step, making her way back towards her new home.

 

\-----

 


	5. John - December 14

  
**5\. John - December 14**  


.

 

Two girls, both around age twenty, had been found washed up on the riverbank with their hands tied together. The scene was bleak, and the crime was disturbing, but John found himself perversely grateful, no matter how much he tried to shove the improper feeling away.

Here, hunkered down over the tables in the lab at Barts, with a meaty case for Sherlock to rip into, life came as close to pleasant normalcy as it ever seemed to, lately. There were no emotional overtones in their conversations, aside from those in consideration of the victims, which Sherlock of course avoided: logic and reason kept a firm hold, and gave John a reassuring structure to lean on. There were no precipices waiting, here, no pitfalls to guard against. It was almost relaxing, being deep in a murder case. Especially now, while Molly and Greg stood on the other end of the room, chatting.

"Couldn't you at least wait until Molly has finished her analysis of the rope to natter on about your significant others and your holiday plans?" Sherlock snapped. He raised his head from the microscope and fixed the DI with a stern stare. "Really, Lestrade. It was so much easier to bear when you were unsure of your romantic footing."

Molly and Greg exchanged a slightly chagrined look, moving apart like scolded schoolchildren. "I was, um. Letting the second sample soak," Molly squeaked, returning to her station. "It's almost ready for the next test."

"Yes, well." Sherlock removed the slide from his scope and replaced it with another, his movements precise and graceful. "It's apparent the two of you haven't been speaking as frequently as usual; your jumper, Molly, indicates that your boyfriend has been demanding a great deal more attention recently than he previously had; and you, Lestrade, have had end-of-year review paperwork on your mind. You need to write recommendations regarding bonuses for Donovan and Anderson before you can go on holiday. I believe you know what my opinion is on _their_ just rewards..." At this, he sniffed and made a derisive face, as if just the mention of Anderson soured his tongue. "All this aside, however, do neither of you believe that these home invasion victims deserve respect?"

"Simon's been sick," Molly protested quietly, at the same time as Greg said, "Hang on now. Home invasion? They were taken off the street and thrown off a bridge, yeh?"

 _And since when does he flap on about respect to the victims? Who are you, sir, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?_ thought John amusedly, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall.

"They were already dead before they were tied together and tossed into the Thames, Lestrade. The antemortem rope burns don't match the rope found on them—Molly's results will conclusively show the differing origin of the new and old bonds. Prior to death they had been bound, but not to each other. And here, I have evidence that the water found in their lungs is from a painted cast-iron bathtub with a rusty faucet, dating back to about 1940."

Sherlock went on over Greg's noises of amazement, further explaining how he'd determined which neighbourhood's tap water it was likely to be, and pointing out which university in that area had detached housing dormitories of the right age to have un-updated baths. John tilted his head back, closed his eyes and let the words wash over him with a contented smile. This—all of this—was how it was supposed to be.

 

.

 

With the heater in the cab cranked up to combat the misty cold of the afternoon, John felt abundant warmth seeping pleasantly into his tired muscles. The grayness outside was thick and quiet, wrapping the windows in a blurry cocoon of fog. It seemed to make the whole world faraway and calm. John listened to the hum and rumble of Sherlock's voice beside him, and provided responses in an automatic cadence as the other man laid out every detail and deduction so far pertaining to the case before them.

"Really..." "Brilliant..." "How d'you figure that?"

The repetitive call-and-response pattern, the gentle rocking vibration of the cab's movements, and the enveloping warmth were utterly hypnotic. John's head lolled slightly on his shoulders and his eyes fell mostly closed, but he continued to respond to Sherlock's statements at each pause, following their rhythm instinctively.

"And that, of course, comes down to the university's poor security policy, which led to their most unfortunate oversight."

"Of course..."

"They mistakenly cleared their file of records detailing the man who had been reported for stalking students in that same dormitory two years ago." Sherlock's voice was so soothing, and calm...he could make the details of murders sound like lullabies...

"Yes..."

Another deep murmur, in the same rhythmic cadence. "What did you dream last night, John?"

"...You fell, and shattered like red glass..."

There was a short silence at that, just enough to break the pattern.

John's numbed, sleep-deprived mind slowly caught up to the words he'd uttered. At that moment it was as if a tub of cold water had suddenly tipped over his head; tensing from head to foot, he sprung his eyes wide and whipped around toward Sherlock, grasping the door handle and shrinking back against the door in his shock. He appeared to be in position to leap from the moving vehicle at any moment.

Sherlock's eyes widened at the intensity of his companion's response, and he held both hands up, palms-out, in a gesture of harmless supplication. "My apologies, John. I did not intend to distress you," he gasped, with a rare breathy overtone present in his voice.

"You—you—" John's lips twisted and worked, but he couldn't seem to get words out.

The taller man appeared to be about to speak once more, but visibly thought better of it and shut his mouth again, seeming to shrink a bit against John's shocked stare.

"Bugger this! Why—WHY—" He was breathing as if he'd run a footrace.

"I only suspected, I didn't know. You've been exhibiting signs of exhaustion for days, John. I only wanted to—"

" _No,_ Sh—stop. Bloody HELL! Stop the cab!" John wrenched at the door the very second the cabbie pulled over, striding off down the street without even giving a thought to orienting himself.

With one glance over his shoulder, he verified that the vehicle had, in fact, continued on its way to 221B with its remaining occupant, leaving John un-followed. He turned the first corner into a random alley and promptly fell heavily against the cold stone wall of the building; propping himself up with his left arm, he folded forward and grasped his thigh with the other hand.

 _Oh god, oh god, oh god..._ Even John's thoughts seemed to be panting.

Eventually he regained control over his faculties enough to stand and emerge from the dim alleyway, cautiously scanning the area to see if anyone had witnessed his weakness. He found himself at a familiar intersection, not too terribly far from home; although it was cold and damp, he had no desire to go back to Baker Street yet. He checked his watch. _Two-forty._ Plenty of time before dark to get a brisk walk in, and clear his head; if he was lucky he could exhaust himself completely enough for a sleep without dreams.

He considered texting Greg as he set off in the opposite direction of home, but pushed the thought away immediately. _No, I don't want him to know. God, I don't want anyone to know. DAMN you for knowing, Sherlock!_ For a dizzying moment he was in multiple places at once: propelling himself blindly through cold fog, yes; but also, lying vulnerable in a cot under the pitying gaze of the night nurse, his shoulder throbbing in a dull roar; standing stunned on a corner as the only man that mattered threw away two lives without explanation; crouching, shivering, next to the sofa in a mess of vomit, with Greg's tentative touch on his back.

"Damn _everyone,_ " John declared weakly. Coming back to fuller awareness of his surroundings, he noted incuriously that at his spoken words, an elderly woman deliberately stepped to the other side of the walk to give him a wide berth.

 

\-----

 


	6. Anna - December 21-22

  
**6\. Anna - December 21-22**  


.

 

The Columbus Metropolitan Airport was a bustling hum of activity, this close to Christmas. Anna pulled through the pickup line, weaving her rental car around the ever-present taxis and crookedly parked SUVs, but didn't see the man she was looking for. _There must be a lot of flights arriving around six; it wasn't nearly this packed when my plane came in this morning,_ Anna thought. Sighing in frustration, she drove out of the brightly-lit passthru and worked her way around the airport lanes for another loop. _I should have parked and gone in, shouldn't I? I've only ever used this pickup area before, though. The flight landed on time, I know that much...Besides, it's not a movie, that I should meet him at the gate, that's a bit too sappy isn't it?_ One more crawl around, and she finally spied the familiar silhouette about five sets of doors down. Anna's stomach clenched in sudden girlish nervousness, and she chewed on her lower lip and tapped her fingers on the wheel as she waited impatiently for a minivan to clear her path towards the curb.

Finally, she got close enough that Greg's searching gaze found her. Breaking into a wide grin, he threw the strap of his carry-on up over his shoulder and shot his arm high in an exuberant wave. She couldn't hear him from twenty feet away inside the car, but she saw his lips move: "Anna!"

She returned his infectious smile, throwing the little rented Chevy into park and popping the trunk as she stepped out of the car. "You made it!" she exclaimed, with a little "oof" as Greg caught her up in a tight hug.

"That I did," Greg replied happily, forestalling further physical affection in the interest of hoisting his bags into the trunk as efficiently as possible; the line of vehicles waiting in the pickup lane was growing significantly.

Anna moved to help him but he was too quick, so she simply hopped back into the driver's seat, taking a quick second to glance at her hair in the rearview mirror. Her face was flushed with excitement and happiness, and she gave a pleased little bounce in her seat that was possibly not befitting a forty-year-old woman.

Shutting the trunk lid, Greg moved around toward her side of the vehicle; catching himself, he gave her a sheepish expression and a shrug as he crossed in front to get to the actual location of the passenger door. "That'll take some getting used to!" he quipped, seating himself and buckling in.

Despite the people waiting, Anna couldn't resist leaning over for a quick kiss before re-starting the car. "So, it's been a long flight. Which is most important to you: tired, or hungry?" she questioned, manoeuvring the Chevy out of the crush and following the line of traffic out to the highway ramps.

"No family plans tonight, then?"

Anna smiled and glanced over, both their faces lit briefly in ghostly blue by the modern-art neon decorating the airport underpass. "Cutting straight to the chase, as always, Greg! No, we don't have to be anywhere tonight. Ryan wants us to go to brunch tomorrow, and I told Mom we'd pick her up from work for dinner when she gets off tomorrow evening."

"When does your other brother get into town?" Greg asked.

"Justin and Becky will be flying in from Seattle Tuesday morning, Tiffany has her tonight and tomorrow for a family event. She had her at Thanksgiving too."

"That must be rough on him. I can't imagine how I'd be dealing with things if Tracy and I had decided to have kids."

Before she could muse out loud on her middle sibling and his relationship with his ex-wife, Greg followed his statement up with a wide yawn. She giggled. "All right, bucko. Family can definitely wait till tomorrow. We're going straight to the hotel, and I'm ordering us a pizza. If I know you, you were at the Yard bright and early this morning, working before you went to the airport, weren't you?"

Greg raised one eyebrow. "How'd you guess? It was just paperwork..."

"Uh huh. Predictable," she returned fondly. "Workaholic."

"Why is it I get the feeling you're going to do your bloody damnedest to break me of that habit in the next few weeks?" Greg asked, in his most alluring gravelly growl.

This brought a laugh from Anna. "You won't have a choice, sweetie. What will there be for you to work on?" _Except me,_ the naughty voice in her head interjected, as she pulled off onto the downtown exit towards the hotel she'd chosen. "I must admit, though, I do look forward to bringing you over to the dark side..."

"Which one's that, then?"

"Oversleepers!" she exclaimed with a righteous finger in the air, and they grinned together.

 

.

 

Anna's plan was to ease Greg into meeting her family one unit at a time; since Justin was conveniently getting in a day late, it hadn't been difficult to arrange. She hustled him out to the car in the morning, not too early, and they drove across to the west side of town to meet Ryan's trio at Perkins for brunch.

Anna should have known she had nothing to worry about. Whatever awkwardness she had expected, Greg Lestrade was a born charmer, with diplomatic skill honed by years working in the police force. His sense of humour was more than enough to keep up with Ryan's quick wit, and he even rolled easily with the stranger sort of comments that seemed unique to the Faber family; but of course, he obviously had no problem with Anna's humour, so how could she have expected otherwise? He drew her sister-in-law Amanda out of her shell easily, asking her intelligent questions about the field of nursing in the United States. Later in the meal, he won Ryan over fully by transforming an offhand comment on the music playing in the restaurant into a serious conversation about early punk music. _I bet Ry will have gotten him watching his band's videos by Christmas Eve,_ Anna mused.

But, by far, the biggest surprise to her was Greg's reaction to Kyle. She knew from various conversations they'd had that Greg had never really wanted children, and although he had of course told her about his rocky relationship with his older brother Brian, his niece and nephew hadn't gotten more than a passing mention or two. It was amazing to Anna, therefore, that Greg had the curly-headed four-year-old up on his lap within ten minutes, showing him his Met ID and telling him about his job.

"Auntie Banna! Did you know—did you know? G'eg catches BAD guys!" exclaimed Kyle, bouncing up and down on his new friend's knee.

"Yes, Kyle-bear, I did know that!"

"Why you always say Bear?"

She reached across and tapped a finger on the child's crinkled nose. "Because _you_ still call me Banana!" He laughed uproariously at that, their repeated inside joke for almost a year. She looked from her nephew's face up to the contented smile of her companion, and felt a fresh tug of love that caused her to completely miss Amanda's next comment.

 

.

 

After their meal, Anna took Greg to visit the indoor portions of the Franklin Park Conservatory. Greg especially loved seeing the large, colourful Chihuly blown glass work that hung like a frenetic chandelier in the lobby area. The verdant greenery of the Palm House was a welcome change from the deepening chill outside, and they wandered hand in hand along the paths, admiring the holiday lights and wreaths amongst the plantings. Somewhere between the orchids and the carnivorous pitcher plants, conversation turned to their mutual friends back in London.

"So what's been going on with John and Sherlock lately? Anything interesting?"

"Case-wise? There've been a few things, but not a whole lot of excitement. Early last week there was a nasty double murder, two university students. When we first caught the case, I was worried it'd draw out and throw a spanner in my travel plans!"

"Simpler than it looked, then, I assume," Anna commented.

"That's Sherlock for you." He shrugged. "He did some of his magic in the lab that put us on the right track pretty much immediately. And then there was some digging to be done at the university, but by the tail end of it, he wasn't even bothering to bring John along with him. Guess that means it _was_ a lot simpler than it looked."

Something in his words caught Anna's attention, and she looked over with a raised brow. "Wasn't bothering? Something going on?"

Now Greg looked sheepish. "What do I know, really? 'S not like I asked him. We were all at the lab with Molly, then the three of us were all at the university, then we split up and I was at the Yard a few hours...then that night, more information came through at the school and only Sherlock showed up to meet me there. It was only him showed up the next day, too, when we brought the guy in."

"So it was probably something besides the case. Did you talk to John again before you flew out here?"

"See now, that _did_ seem just a little weird to me," he replied, finally picking up on her sense of concern. "I texted John when the chase picked back up, but it was Sherlock who texted me back. I didn't hear from John at all 'til two days after the case closed, and all he told me then was to have a good trip and send you his best wishes. I admit, though, I was a little preoccupied with getting ready to go! Didn't really give it much of a thought."

She studied the foliage overhead with a little frown. "Hm. Think they had another fight?"

"Ahh, usually if there's one bad enough to be a problem, I end up getting an earful about it pretty soon from one or the other of them."

Anna smirked as she recalled her first-hand experience with Greg being used as Sherlock's emotional sounding board: she'd been concealed in the bedroom during a particularly desperate rant. "Good point, there. Well, I'm sure it was nothing to worry about then."

 

.

 

Anna's mother was to finish her shift at the Metropolitan Library downtown at seven, and at six forty-five they were waiting in the underground parking garage to pick her up, as promised. Charlotte Faber had turned sixty-six the previous summer, but so far refused to consider retirement. She was fiercely independent, and had raised her three children on her own after their father had died. After seeing the easy, charming way Greg had handled meeting her youngest brother and his family, Anna was feeling pretty good about the evening; what she saw was some surprise to her, then, when she looked over to the passenger seat.

The fluorescent light on the dull concrete columns reflected sallowly on her companion's face. His jaw was tense and one corner of his mouth was pulled inwards, as if he were biting at the inside of his cheek. He had his eyes fixed on the steel entrance door from which they expected Mrs. Faber to eventually emerge.

"Are you okay, Greg?"

He fingered the collar of his white button-down shirt, plainly wishing for a tie he had not worn. "Ah, yes. Sorry. I'm fine."

 _Obviously not,_ Anna silently retorted. Out loud, she simply said, "Don't worry. Mom won't bite."

She watched as Greg made a visible effort to relax. "Promise?" he asked, in a tone that was meant to be light and teasing, but fell far short.

"I promise, sweetie," she assured him, resting her hand on his shoulder. "What's the deal all of a sudden?"

"You know—I'm not really sure, love. I guess...it's just, I dunno, really _real,_ meeting your Mum and all."

"Huh. Yeah, okay, I guess it is," she answered. "Do you feel like it's too soon?"

"Nah!" he scoffed, looking down at his intertwined fingers in his lap. After a moment of silence, though, he quietly added, "Tracy's mum always hated me."

 _And you told me your mother died the year before you married Tracy,_ Anna remembered. _Wow, between the two of us we're practically surrounded by death, aren't we?_ She cast about for something to say, and suddenly realised she'd been kind of counting on Greg's unflappable nature to get her through the evening. "Aw crap. Now you've got me nervous," she muttered.

He reached up and took her hand, and she squeezed it in return. "Sorry, Anna," he said. "I know it'll be fine, yeh? I just really want to make a good impression, for your sake."

"Trust me, honey, there is no _possible_ way Mom won't like you. And I think you'll get a kick out of her, too." She found herself chewing on her own lip too, though, as they sat and watched the door.

 

.

 

Later, back in their room at the Westin Hotel, Anna stood at the mirror and unhooked her charm bracelet, laying the treasured piece carefully in a little travel case on the bureau. Removing her silver earrings, she met Greg's eyes over her shoulder, and murmured, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Approaching from behind, he brushed aside her long ash-brown hair and gently placed a kiss behind her right ear, before carefully undoing her necklace clasp and lifting the delicate chain away. "You know, it really wasn't. And I should've expected as much."

"Hm? How so?" she asked, leaning back and smiling as his fingers interlaced at her stomach.

"Because she's so like you."

"Is that so." She spun in his arms and hooked her wrists behind his neck, idly running fingertips through short, silver-tipped hair.

"Charlotte Faber is quite obviously where you inherited your charm,"—he kissed her forehead—"your intelligence, your sparkling wit,"—and then her nose—"and your beauty."

"Eloquent. You're just trying to flatter me," Anna smirked, tilting her head back to meet his warm brown eyes.

"Trying? I would hope I'm succeeding." Greg led her over to the leather-upholstered bench at the foot of the bed, and she sat down. "At any rate," he continued, "I don't know what it was I did to get someone like you to fall for me."

"You give _really_ good directions."

"Aw, come on. Really now, honestly?" he questioned with a teasing look, sinking to his knees. He began unlacing her low-heeled leather boots and setting them aside.

Anna rested one hand lightly on his shoulder as he worked. "I don't know...just something about you," she sighed. "One foot dropped, I think, right when you shook my hand that first day. I didn't know it though, I was so wrapped up in my own issues."

"And the other foot?" As if to emphasise his point, Greg pulled a foot into his lap and began rubbing the tension out of it with strong thumbs.

"Mmm...oh, that's nice...The museum, that had to be it. You were so careful that day, so chivalrous. But every time we touched it was like an electric spark."

"I was so bloody nervous that day."

"Really?"

"I couldn't believe I was actually getting a second date. You were way out of my league, yeh?"

At this, Anna stood and took his hands, pulling him back to his feet. "You keep _saying_ that. I have absolutely no idea what you mean. You're amazing, Greg," she breathed, resting her cheek over his heart. _And how I wish you never had to leave me._

 

\-----

 


	7. John - December 16 and December 22

  
**7\. John - December 16 and December 22**  


.

 

For a full forty-eight hours, John had stewed continuously over the cab incident. If their conversation had been limited in the weeks prior, it was positively restricted during this period: anytime Sherlock so much as said word one, he was confronted by a hard look that quickly cowed him. Sherlock abided by this, for the most part, his expression mild and his eyes following his flatmate silently during the brief periods when they remained in the same room.

He did, however, find various ways to make wordless peace offerings.

On the first evening, after realising that silence was required of him, Sherlock had removed himself to his bedroom entirely without huff or complaint. Later on, John had knocked on his door and silently showed the message that had come in on his phone: shortly after walking out alone to meet Lestrade, Sherlock had sent a brief text informing John of his whereabouts and expected time of return. This, in itself, was consideration worthy of note.

On the second evening, he had ordered in John's favourite Chinese takeaway, and texted John to notify him when it arrived. He'd stayed in the kitchen just long enough to make sure his flatmate saw that he had eaten two egg rolls and one moo shu pork pancake, and then he had retrieved a book from the main room and quietly disappeared again.

For those two nights, John fell asleep to the muffled strains of violin—and woke to them as well, multiple times. He resented the reminder that Sherlock was aware of his nightmares; he further resented the implication that he required intervention or assistance, and he especially ground his teeth over the fact that he had been _tricked_ into admitting the problem. He did, however, notice that if nothing else, some small measure of his usual insecurity was lessened. _I don't have to wonder if he's listening, and I don't have to wonder if he knows, now that I know for sure he is and does,_ John thought with a grimace, staring up at his familiar patch of ceiling.

 

.

 

John bundled up and went for another long walk at mid-morning on the second day, and when he returned it was almost precisely two thirty. Sherlock was seated at the kitchen table, bent over a series of small flasks and manipulating a wad of some sort of fibres with a pair of long, sharp tweezers. He stopped mid-motion when John entered the room, frozen with one fluffy strand poised over a flask, cautiously watching for clues as to the prevailing mood.

Silence continued to hold sway as the army doctor stood at the counter, working patiently and methodically with his back to the room; eventually he turned and placed a steaming mug at Sherlock's elbow. "Afternoon, Sherlock," he said, seating himself and meeting the other man's eyes calmly.

The simple greeting, uttered so quietly, seemed to have the effect of a thunderclap. Sherlock's eyes widened and he swallowed visibly before looking down at his tea, then returning to his flatmate's unwavering gaze. "John," was all he said.

"You should have just asked," John murmured.

"I—yes. It wasn't something I'd planned, John."

"I know. But planned or not..."

"...The use of a trance state, even if simply taking advantage of a natural circumstance, was a bit not good," Sherlock finished for him.

He still hadn't looked away, and his voice remained mild and gentle. "I'm not an experiment, Sherlock."

The taller man slowly set aside his tweezers without looking, drinking in the eye contact he'd been so frequently denied in the months since his return. "But you _are_ worthy of my study. Your well-being is...paramount."

John took that statement in for a moment, allowing a more comfortable silence to stretch while he considered what else he felt ready to say. "...I'm sorry, too." _Even though he hasn't actually SAID sorry, might as well count that as close enough._ "I haven't been easy to talk to, have I?"

Letting his eyes fall downward, Sherlock sipped his tea thoughtfully. "Given the circumstances, that's entirely understandable."

"Well. I'm not—I'm not quite ready yet. Be patient with me?" John asked, pushing his chair back to stand.

 

.

 

Three days before Christmas, Mrs Hudson had finally returned from her week away visiting her cousin, and the aroma of her holiday baking mingled in 221B with the faint scents of iodine and sulphur left over from one of Sherlock's inscrutable experiments. At least, John certainly hoped they were faint; the frequency with which he had to put up with these sorts of residual odours was such that he suspected he had built up a certain tolerance. He had spent most of the morning working to give a semblance of tidiness to the stacks of papers and books that so frequently threatened to conquer the living room. Now, he was ready to pull out their stepladder to continue his preparations. A dusty, battered box of horribly tangled fairy lights sat squarely in the centre of the floor. Sherlock steadfastly ignored it, of course, in favour of the research periodical he was leafing through.

Giving a sigh which was not terribly discontent, John lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the rug, tugging at a strand of the coloured bulbs while mentally scolding the John Watson of early 2011 for putting them away in such a state. _I remember the day I took them down, though,_ he mused. _If that call from Lestrade hadn't interrupted me, I probably would have dealt with them better._ As he wrestled with the lights, he smiled at the memory of that relatively minor case, one of the period that seemed so unremarkable and calm compared to what they had just dealt with. _And then, so soon after that lull came Baskerville, and everything after..._ John's smile faltered along with his movements, and he reflexively turned his head toward Sherlock, seated in the armchair just behind him and to his right.

Before he could turn all the way around, there was a light brush of fingertips at his right shoulder.

"John." That was all Sherlock said, but it conveyed a wealth of information: _I was watching. I deduced your train of thought. I extrapolated that you would feel reassured by physical confirmation of my presence._ All of that, John found he could understand from one well-timed word and touch. And there was something more, that perhaps...just perhaps...

Hesitantly, he raised his own hand, following Sherlock's where it had retreated back to the arm of the chair after its brief contact. He wasn't exactly sure what he meant to be doing, but found himself gently grasping the other man's wrist at the pulse point. They didn't quite lock eyes; John kept his gaze fixed somewhere in the vicinity of his flatmate's shoulder. For him, it seemed as if the background noise of the street outside, as well as the background noise of his own thoughts, completely disappeared into a light static hiss; they stayed frozen like this, Sherlock's heartbeat tripping against his fingertips, for a period he found himself unable to measure.

After a few seconds—or was it minutes?—the tenuous stillness was broken by a high-pitched electronic trill somewhere at the other side of the room. Both men startled at it: John pulled his hand back against his side as if it were burned, while Sherlock turned his initial twitch into a smooth rise from the armchair.

"Finally!" crowed the detective, crouching gracefully and producing his laptop from the crevice underneath the sofa.

John watched him in some consternation. _That's his, not mine. Why did he leave it under there? What was the noise for? More importantly...WHAT just happened?_ He cleared his throat. "Finally?"

Sherlock turned in place from his crouched position, folding his long legs like the world's most elegant pretzel. When he completed his movement, he was cross-legged on the floor, directly across from John, with his computer already open in his lap. His eyes were alight as he explained, "I had an alert set up for a certain type of activity on the 'Ink Formulations in Common Use' discussion topic at the International Philately Organisation's secondary online message board."

John's eyebrows rose. "You have a sudden, overwhelming interest in stamps?"

His companion looked up over his screen, meeting John's inquiring look with a positively mischievous grin. "Not in the slightest!"

"Okay, you've lost me then, Sherlock." He looked down at his lap, suddenly remembering the reason he was sitting on the floor, and attacked the knotted cords with renewed vigour.

Sherlock elaborated, "You will recall, of course, that I have been tracking the online messages of a group referring to themselves as 'TDK'." Intent on his screen and tapping at the keyboard with his left hand, he absently reached across with his right and lifted one portion of John's light strand, holding it up between them as he continued. "I've spent the last few weeks slowly building up a picture of their communication system. Their network is thinly spread worldwide, and—apparently in the interest of convenience—they have been exchanging certain coded instructions and responses via meetings on backwater message boards in the obscure recesses of the internet."

"Huh, so philately is the thing then," muttered John as he worked. He found his detangling progress to be a fair bit easier with the third hand's lift on the fairy lights. "You're certain?"

"The pattern of message locations dictates that only certain boards are used at certain times, or to drop specific kinds of messages. Through my observations in the last few weeks, I've deduced that this topic thread on this website should be the venue for the next group conversation...and, ah! It appears I am correct! Seven—no, nine participants!"

"That's brilliant! What are they saying?"

"It's unclear to me so far to whom they are referring, but they seem to have been coordinating some kind of search for a person who wronged their group. Judging by the lower level chat—the more prominent members of the organisation seem to stay separate from these discussions—the hunted party had previously been a member of TDK. It appears he may have been involved in a money laundering operation."

John leaned forward to pull a fresh portion of the knotted cords from his friend's hand, licking his lips in concentration. "The crook skimmed off the crooks, then."

"Precisely." The pair exchanged a satisfied glance. They both worked quietly for another minute, until Sherlock spoke again. " _There_ it is!"

"What's that then?"

"Finally, someone has referred to their organization by its full name. 'Teufel Der Kunst'...And of course! It perfectly explains the odd tattoo on Pattinson's wrist."

"Truffle of what, now?" John asked teasingly, looking up and giving a slight tug on the cord still looped through Sherlock's outstretched hand.

As he had hoped, Sherlock granted him a tiny snort to acknowledge the joke. "German. 'Teufel Der Kunst'. It means, Devil of Art."

 

\-----

 


	8. Anna - December 24

  
**8\. Anna - December 24**   


.

 

The afternoon of Christmas Eve brought snow to Columbus, but only a little; just enough to finally turn the yards white and complete the holiday atmosphere with lazily drifting flakes. Anna and Greg had spent much of the previous day with Justin and his daughter, braving the last-minute crush at Easton Mall. The foursome had split into pairs a few times, long enough to provide eight-year-old Becky opportunities to choose gifts for her father and aunt. Now, the entire Faber clan converged on their childhood home for the traditional long, lazy day of food and talk.

"Coming through! Watch it," called Anna, carrying a platter of hot Italian sausage chunks out to the family room. She wedged it in between a bowl of chips and a veggie tray. The children barreled past behind her, and she shook her head fondly; Kyle had really picked up speed in the last few months, and Becky was enjoying leading her cousin on a wild chase throughout the house.

"She's a runner, all right," Greg chuckled, reaching over from the chair nearby to spear a sausage on a toothpick.

"Well, if she ever slows down long enough, I think I'm supposed to take her upstairs and help her wrap up some of the presents she's giving tomorrow morning."

He gestured with the empty pick, setting it on a paper plate as he swallowed. "Actually, love, you're already off the hook. I helped with that while you and your Mum were busy with the baking."

Anna put her hands on her hips, affecting a pose of mock-indignation. "Oh yeah? So you're telling me you've got gift-wrapping skills too?"

"Man of hidden talents, that's me!" He grinned and caught her around the waist, pulling her playfully down to sit on his lap.

"Mm." They took advantage of their brief moment alone to sneak in a few kisses.

Soon they heard the garage entry open, and Justin's voice shouted in over an echoing clatter. "Hey Greg, Ry finally found the ball. Are you taking part in the foosball tournament, or what?"

 

.

 

Later, Amanda and the kids were back in the den watching a Disney movie. Anna could no longer hear the clatter of the foosball table or the friendly shouts and jeers associated with it, but the three men hadn't reappeared in a while. _Probably just trying to avoid helping in the kitchen,_ she thought with a smile, as she tipped the green beans from her cutting board into the steaming pot. _I know for a fact Ry still keeps beer in Mom's spare fridge out there. Typical...and Greg's fitting right in already._

Charlotte returned to the kitchen and bent to check on her pot roast in the oven. "So," she said, "you haven't asked yet."

"Asked what, Mom? Oh, I should get the rolls ready to go, hand them over here..."

"You haven't asked what I think of Detective Inspector Lestrade."

The use of the formal title inexplicably brought heat to Anna's cheeks as she worked. "I assumed you would tell me whether I asked or not. Why rush you?"

The older woman snorted. "You're afraid I don't approve, aren't you?"

"What gives you that idea?"

"Look, I know you feel guilty." At her daughter's startled glance, she cocked her head sympathetically. "You know I lost your father to that car accident when I was right around the same age that you are now. And you know I never moved on, never dated anyone after Peter."

"Mom..."

Charlotte held up a hand, stopping her from interrupting. "But, honey, you're wrong about that. Sure, I never brought anyone into our home while you three were still living in it...But I've done my fair share of dating. In fact, I've been going steady with Robert for nearly a decade now."

Anna's jaw was completely out of her control. "Robert?"

"I know, I know, I should have told you all! He's painfully shy, and I was afraid you three wouldn't like him. Plus, he's a coworker, and a little bit younger, so we've always kept it hush hush..." Charlotte shrugged, patting at her curled gray hair.

"Wow. Just, wow...Mom!" Anna leaned over for a shocked hug, for lack of any better response. "Uh. So...what _do_ you think of Greg?"

"I think he's quite charming. A little bit older than I would have expected...He's very cute though. And of course, there's that accent, my goodness. Very sexy. Does he ever wear jeans? I'll bet he looks _great_ in jeans."

" _Mother!_ Oh my god," Anna hissed, feeling like she would literally sink through the floor if anyone else entered the kitchen.

"Oh honey, I just love getting a rise out of you!" Charlotte laughed. "He's smart enough to understand my gifted daughter, he's got a good career, he's romantic and funny...He makes you happy, and he utterly adores you. All that and a nice butt too, how could I possibly disapprove?"

 

.

 

After dinner, Anna poured herself a glass of wine and snagged a peanut butter cookie in the kitchen, taking a breather from the women's discussion still going on over the remains of dessert. Amanda and Charlotte were now discussing Amanda's mother's health issues, and Anna was happy to sit out that topic. She leaned up against the fridge, letting the sounds of the gathering wash pleasantly over her: the ladies in the dining room, the muffled laughter of her brothers from the den down the hall, and the kids... _Hmm, the kids are being suspiciously quiet. Are they in with their dads?_ With a slight frown, she tilted her head toward the family room around the corner, and finally was able to make out voices.

"...No, we're not staying for New Year's. Your Auntie Anna and I are going back up to her new house in Chicago, and a few weeks after that I'll have to fly back home," she heard Greg explaining.

"Okay," Becky said next. "Will you come back and visit again?"

Kyle's squeaky voice burst in before the girl's question could be answered. "G'eg! You be _Uncle_ G'eg now? Will you will you?"

There was a gruff little laugh at that. "Well. Not sure how to properly answer that one, lad. How about you, Becks? What do you think?"

Anna, still frozen in place, listened to her niece's pragmatic and thoughtful reply. "I think you should. You're nice and funny and you make Aunt Anna smile a lot just like Uncle David did. Plus if you were my uncle, you could tell Daddy I could come stay with you guys in London sometime, that would be sooo cool."

"Thanks for that, Becks. Glad you approve. As far as visiting—well, maybe I'll have a talk with your Dad about that when you're a little older, yeh?"

Anna coughed, choking just a little on her wine. Realising that this would draw attention to herself, she quickly grabbed another cookie and walked out casually, as if she were just coming through from the dining room. "Oh, there you are, Greg!" she said, smiling.

Greg looked up from the sofa, where he sat with a child tucked in close on either side, his laptop open on his knees. "Here I am, love! I was just getting ready to show the tykes here some photos of London. Kyle, how about you sit on your aunt's lap, so she can see too?"

Once everyone was re-settled, and the cookie had been appropriately shared between Greg and her nephew, they all sat for a little while looking through the photos. Many of the shots were taken during Anna's stay, and photos from her own camera had been copied over into the same files; they smiled together at the shots of themselves posing with John in front of Hampton Court Palace, and Greg laughed when they came to the candid shot of Sherlock's dramatic thinking pose at the Tower of London.

Soon a message notification popped up at the bottom of the screen. Clicking on it, Greg chuckled. "Oh look! Email from Molly. She's sent a video message!" He hit a few keys and opened the file to fill the screen.

"Happy Christmas, Greg! Happy Christmas, Anna!" Molly's chipper voice exclaimed through the little speakers. The video showed the front of 221B Baker Street, at night; after some fumbling and muffled exclamations, she emerged into view. Tucking her loose hair back to show a sparkly purple earring, she gave a sprightly wave to the camera. "Simon and I thought, since you couldn't be here, we could take this little video for you! Say hello, Simon!" Here the scene lurched clumsily back around, and a skinny, bespectacled man smiled and waved briefly at close range before turning it back.

The scene cut, and changed to a view moving from the hallway and through the open door into the living room. Simon was apparently still trying to get the hang of working the camera, and the focus shifted alarmingly a few times before coming to rest on Mrs Hudson. The older woman smoothed the front of her dark red dress as Molly prompted her to greet them. "Gregory! Ooh, I do hope you're having a lovely time on holiday, dear. But what a shame, missing Sherlock's first Christmas back with us! Anna, you be sure to take care of him for us all. And get him under some mistletoe, lovey!"

A large glass of wine came into the frame and Simon's hand reached out for it. After that, the film became a disjointed series of short clips filmed by one or the other of the couple: a brief greeting from John, the ladies chatting while John sat by nodding, Simon reacting to Mrs Hudson's candies, Sherlock opening a gift from Molly.

"Would you look at that. It's hard to tell, but I do believe he's being civil about it for once," Greg commented, approvingly.

The last scene on the video was an extended clip of Sherlock playing his violin for the group. Simon's camera cut in just at the end of an energetic tune, and Sherlock made a little bow to the slightly drunken applause of his landlady. He resumed playing, then, turning "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" into an original adaptation that hushed the room. The frame pulled wider to include John standing nearby, utterly still as the melody swelled; his eyes were fixed on Sherlock with an unreadable expression that gave Anna a little shiver.

 

.

 

Around nine-thirty, everyone gathered in the family room for the Faber holiday tradition: storytime. Everyone took turns telling their favorite stories about Peter Faber, as they had in his memory every Christmas for the past twenty-seven years. A few anecdotes about their grandparents were told as well, and Becky insisted on joining in with a funny story about her pet lizard who had died.

When the chuckles over Squiggles' antics had died down, Anna cleared her throat. "I know I couldn't handle this last year, guys, but I think I'm ready..." Gripping Greg's hand tightly, she began telling the group how David had taken a wrong turn during one of their road trips, detouring them for hours along a rural route in the mountains of West Virginia. By the end of the amusing story, the white lights of the Christmas tree had blurred together into a bright smear in her teary eyes. Greg threw his arm over her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.

Justin continued with his recollection of how David had earned the nickname "Voodoo". Finally, Ryan added a reenactment of the time he had broken his foot while they were on a hiking trip together. _It feels good adding David to storytime,_ Anna thought as they all laughed together over the memories. _He's in good company with Dad._

Soon after, the gathering drew to a close; Justin took his daughter upstairs to the spare rooms where they were staying, while Ryan got his family packed up to go home for the night. As Anna drove back with Greg to the hotel, she found that the smile playing on her lips was equal parts wistfulness and excitement.

 

\-----

 


	9. John - December 24

  
**9\. John - December 24**   


.

 

John stood, hands on hips, and surveyed his handiwork. At seven o'clock on Christmas Eve, the flat was as clean as his and Mrs Hudson's combined efforts could get it. John had a small pot of cinnamon and citrus peel simmering on the cooktop to combat the chemical smell he was convinced still lingered; the spicy scent combined pleasantly with the aroma of the pine garland he'd put up at the mantel. Fairy lights twinkled at the edges of his vision no matter where he looked, and a fire crackled merrily in the grate; _perfect._ He nodded briskly to himself, turning and making his way cheerfully down the stairs. Mrs Hudson was ready with her door open, and handed him two trays of food and sweets to carry up.

"Ooh, there we go! That should be everything, dearie. Perfect timing, there's the door! You go on up, love." Turning, she straightened the classic strand of pearls she wore over the collar of her wine-colored dress.

As John walked back up, he could hear their guests being greeted. _Not that we have anyone but Molly and her boyfriend coming. Granted, Stamford said he and the missus might drop by after their other party...but no matter if they don't make it, after all. Small is best, eh?_

Just before he reached the kitchen door, he heard Molly's familiar breathy voice addressing Mrs Hudson on the stairs. "We're, um, making a little video for Greg. Since he's off in America, with Anna. Could you say hello?"

Sherlock stood peering suspiciously into the aromatic simmer pot. He raised his head when John entered. "That jumper is new," he commented.

The shorter man cocked his head to one side. "Yeah, so?"

"Nothing. Just observing." Sherlock moved past toward the hallway, and added almost inaudibly, "It's nice," just before removing himself entirely from the room.

John set the trays on the worktop and looked down at his moss green jumper with a vague sense of surprise. Shaking his head, he poured two glasses of red wine and brought them back into the main room, just catching the tail end of Mrs Hudson saying something about mistletoe to a handheld videocamera. He handed one glass to Molly along with a quick peck on her cheek, and leaned forward to offer the other glass up to the lens. "Simon, right?"

The camera came down to reveal an angular face, wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a nervous smile. "Yes, that's me, sorry!"

The man was only a little taller than John, and wore festive red braces that accented his thin frame. John watched him take a healthy slug of wine the moment the glass was in his hand. _Probably worked up about meeting Sherlock, if Molly's told him anything at all about the man. Where is Sherlock, anyway?_

Back to the kitchen John went, to find his flatmate once again standing near the worktop. This time, he was choosing out a rum ball from the bowl John had brought up, apparently searching for the ideal candidate in size and shape. Plucking out his prize and holding it delicately between thumb and forefinger, he hummed distractedly. "Before you ask, yes, I did see Molly and her boyfriend."

"Well?"

"Her choice of attire is telling: a flattering cut to the dress but not overly revealing, and the purple colour reinforces my conclusion that the relationship is comfortable and healthy, but does not lack spark. She seems well matched to this young man; he has a regrettable problem with social anxiety, but it's apparent he cares deeply for her happiness. I believe you may need to watch him with the wine, however; he shows markers for mild anaemia and will likely be easily overcome."

John's eyebrows rose into his hairline. "I _meant,_ are you planning to come out and make your appearance anytime soon?"

"Oh."

"Still, I suppose I should commend you for airing your deductions in private rather than in front of their sources. One of these days you may be able to get through a party without offending anyone, though I don't hold out too much hope." John tempered his teasing with a warm smile. "Come on, then..."

 

.

 

"Hullo, Greg, Anna. Happy Christmas to you both. Hope you're having a fine time of it with the family...We miss you up here, already. And you too, Anna. Stay well," John told the camera. Ducking off to the side with a nod and a little wave, he peered around at Molly. "All right?"

"Yes, that's fine. Thanks," she replied with a smile. Handing the camera back to Simon, she turned and sat down on the sofa next to the older woman. "So, Mrs Hudson. You never finished telling me the other day, what happened with your friend's Corgi pups..."

John did his best to follow the ladies' conversation, chiming in with appropriate words of surprise or agreement where warranted, but his focus kept slipping away. He did a little better when the topic of conversation moved on to the state of his landlady's troubled hip rather than Mrs Turner's wayward pets; still, he found himself drifting repeatedly. Glancing over, he saw the lens of that damnable video camera pointing his way, again. _Great, I hope Greg gets an eyeful of how dull a party it is without him around,_ he thought, a bit sourly, even as he renewed his efforts to appear properly interested and engaged on film.

Having noticed the camera, though, he was drawn to notice what was going on behind it: Sherlock appeared to actually be carrying on a conversation with the gawky younger man. Based upon the hand gestures involved, it appeared to be more of a lecture regarding optics and focal length, rather than a real discussion; still, it was enough of an anomaly to give John pause.

As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock chose that moment to look over and lock eyes with his friend. _Save me from this insufferable bore,_ his expression read clearly, just for a second, before making itself back over into a bland half-smile directed at Simon.

"Right," John said, standing and smacking his thighs decisively. "I think it's about time to exchange gifts, everyone. Sherlock, come help me?"

John made his way upstairs towards his bedroom, where the large wrapped box for Mrs Hudson sat concealed behind the door. He heard the expected footsteps behind him almost immediately. Just at the top of the stair, he turned to see Sherlock popping another rum ball into his mouth as he ascended. The taller man stopped exactly two steps below him, giving John the unusual sensation of a slight height advantage.

"Everything all right?" John asked in a low tone.

One graceful eyebrow rose slowly, but there was no further response.

"You know what I mean. The deduction was one thing—but I saw you making conversation back there. Plus, I heard you give an actual compliment to Molly earlier, and that must be the fifth rum ball you've eaten since I brought them up." John couldn't help allowing his voice to reflect how mystified he felt at his flatmate's behaviour.

"I'm simply performing an experiment." At the other man's nonplussed expression, Sherlock elaborated: "The social conventions of the season are a tedious distraction I generally avoid on principle. However, over the last few years I found myself considering whether there might not be some possible small measure of...enjoyment." He rolled the word on his tongue as if it had an unfamiliar taste.

John huffed out a surprised breath. "Huh. Do my ears deceive me, or are you saying you actually _missed_ Christmas? God, next thing I know you're going to be hanging a stocking, or looking for mistletoe..." He froze as he realised the image he'd just conjured up. _Oh, shit._ The word had only popped out on top of his impromptu list of 'Christmassy things' because he'd so recently heard Mrs Hudson saying it; instantly he wished for a rewind button on his mouth.

The detective stepped up purposefully to the step just below him, bringing them almost exactly nose-to-nose. John smelled the sweet tang of rum and chocolate on Sherlock's breath as he replied, slowly and deliberately, "Somehow, I doubt that."

And then the moment was over, as suddenly as it had begun; Sherlock stepped nimbly to the side and up into the bedroom, bending to lift his end of the package. John spun around to follow suit, and together they carried down the carved storage bench they'd bought their landlady. Back downstairs, he tried to convince himself for the next five minutes that it was the exertion that had his heart pounding so.

 

.

 

Later, when gifts had been exchanged all around and various toasts made, Sherlock took up his violin, to Mrs Hudson's obvious delight. She entreated him to start with her favourite, "We Wish You a Merry Christmas"; he moved on from that into "Silent Night", and then a sprightly, jig-like rendition of "Un Flambeau, Jeanette, Isabelle" which had everyone tapping their toes. After taking a break for applause and a small swig of Scotch, the detective took a deep breath, closed his eyes and set his bow to play again.

The group recognised the tune as "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen", and at first it played through just as the carol normally would. Just after the first verse, however, the music shifted seamlessly into a variation that took that simple melody and threaded it into a lonely, searching cry.

John's awareness of Mrs Hudson behind him, and of Molly and Simon sitting together on the sofa, faded away as he watched his companion sway gracefully back and forth. He drank in the pale, elegant expanse of Sherlock's neck, the tensing and releasing of his shoulders, the lock of ebony hair fallen over one brow, the way he breathed in tandem with the phrasing of the music. John was utterly transfixed.

Sherlock's eyes remained shut, and his brow furrowed slightly as he drew a plaintive, haunting appeal from his strings, more intense at its peak than almost any emotion the doctor had ever seen him express. The melody spiraled upwards, hesitated, and reached up again, somehow weaving a strand of hope into the longing sadness. Finally the music slowed, becoming gentle and tentative—almost tender—as it drew the original Christmas carol back to the fore; Sherlock bowed his head and pursed his full lips as he ended the piece on a meditative double stopped harmony.

Afterwards, there was a breathless minute of perfect silence.

Molly finally spoke in a hushed tone. "That was beautiful, I've never heard it like that before."

Sherlock turned to face John and opened his eyes in a single fluid motion. "I composed the arrangement two years ago today, in Moscow," he answered, directing his words and his serious silver gaze solely towards his friend as if no-one else was there. "I had no instrument at the time; this is the first I've heard it, as well...Excuse me." Before John could speak, Sherlock strode from the room and was gone.

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's Christmas Eve in Moscow can be found here: [Song of Home](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1312621)


	10. Anna - December 27-28

  
**10\. Anna - December 27-28**   


.

 

The weather had warmed up a touch in the days following Christmas, and had begun to melt the slushy remnants on the edges of the roads. Anna squinted against the white glare of the cloudless winter sky as she carefully pulled her unwieldy U-Haul truck into the Stor-All lot. "I swear I had my sunglasses in my purse," she muttered.

Greg leaned over and pulled her handbag out from under his feet, carefully picking through the pockets and coming up empty. "Sorry, love. Not seeing them. You didn't leave 'em in the rental car, you think?"

"Ugh, maybe. Dang it, I liked that pair...remind me to stop somewhere on our way out of town and buy some cheap ones, we'll be heading straight into the sunset." She checked her position in the mirrors and threw the truck into park.

Ryan was already parked nearby, waiting. He got out of his car and crossed towards them with a grin. As she and Greg hopped down from the cab, Justin's rented SUV pulled past them and into another slot.

"Sorry I'm late! My helper insisted on coming along, too," laughed her middle brother as he approached, gesturing to the girl skipping energetically across the parking lot behind him.

"Great, the more the merrier!" Anna fished the key to her storage unit from her pocket and tossed it to Ryan; Greg was already heaving open the rear of the truck and extending its loading ramp, with the other man's help. She tilted her head in appreciation as her handsome Detective Inspector stepped up into the empty truck. _Mm, too bad we said goodbye to Mom last night. She totally missed out on seeing those amazing blue jeans._

 

.

 

All told, it took nearly two hours (only some of it spent working), one runner sent for coffee and muffins, and a lot of shared laughter to get all of Anna's belongings loaded up and ready to go. Finally they re-loaded Greg's luggage and her weekender bag, locked up the doors and started making their goodbyes.

Anna turned from Ryan's tight hug and watched as her niece took a running leap at Greg. He laughed and caught her up, and she leaned in conspiratorially to whisper something into his ear, shielding her mouth with one hand.

Setting her down with another squeeze, he smiled and mussed her sandy hair. "Will do, Becks. I promise. You be good now, all right, poppet?"

A few minutes later, as she got the truck moving, Anna couldn't help but ask. "What was Becky telling you back there?"

"Ah, that. Um, she wants me to send her postcards!" Greg grinned crookedly and patted his coat lapel, indicating the inside pocket. "Got your brother's address, it won't be a problem."

 _Oh really,_ she said silently to herself, remembering the sneaky smile Becky had directed at her just after that exchange. _I doubt that was all. But I suppose I'll just let that drop for now..._ Looking down, she noticed a flashing light on her phone. "Whoops, someone called while we were working! Can you pull up my voicemail, honey? I've got my hands full here."

He nodded. "Wish I could help you more; it's awkward enough having to drive a lorry, but I know I wouldn't want to try it on the wrong side of the road." He tapped the speaker button and they both listened to the tinny voice on the recording.

"Miss Clark, this is Frank Hammond, Halcyon Gallery! We're working out our schedule for the upcoming quarter. I've considered your work and want to discuss your terms. Call me as soon as you can, we need to meet right away!" The man rattled off a phone number and disconnected.

"He sounds a bit excitable," Greg commented as he replaced her phone in the cup holder. "But that sounds promising for you, love!"

"Yeah, wow! I didn't expect to hear from him so soon. I'll call back in a few minutes; might as well, since I'm stopping for shades anyway."

She did make the call, but got no answer, and no voicemail recording picked up either. With a little shrug, she peeled the cling sticker off her new sunglasses, and soon enough they were on the highway heading out of her hometown.

 

.

 

The pair drove west and then north, lumbering along at a steady, cruise-controlled pace as evening settled over Indiana. Although Anna was sorely disappointed by the lack of a way to play her own music in the truck, they did manage to tune into a few local classic rock stations along the way, singing and laughing together to the Cars and David Bowie during the periods when reception was good. When the music wasn't coming in, they exchanged stories about learning how to drive, their favorite schoolteachers, and the misadventures of Greg's first few weeks in police training.

Sometime after their quick stop for dinner, they lapsed for a while into a comfortable silence; the darkness had become complete as they continued north of Lafayette, and the rural Indiana sky was perfectly clear. As she drove, Anna studied the peaceful silhouette of her companion from the corner of her eye, the curve of his nose and brow limned faintly in the blue glow of the dash lights. Greg rested his head against the side window, tilting his chin up to gaze raptly at the stars. After a few minutes, he sat up in surprise. "What's this?"

"What? Oh yeah, we're going through the wind turbine fields now. I guess it's harder to tell that's what they are, at night. Pretty cool, huh?"

Greg peered wide-eyed out into the darkness, as they drove between two seemingly boundless arrays of red lights hovering in midair. They pulsed on and off in unison, like the slow, somnolent heartbeat of some unknown, invisible beast. The few turbines placed closer to the road allowed brief, dreamlike glimpses of the massive spinning wing blades overhead with each rhythmic throb of red.

"Cor...It's a bit ominous, isn't it?" he murmured, stroking his chin.

Anna smiled. "I love it. It's mysterious."

 

.

 

Two and a half more hours of driving brought them at last to Chicago's environs. By the time they pulled up to Anna's small home—by pure luck, finding a large enough parking spot available directly in front—it was past ten, and gathering clouds heralded snowfall to come. Greg unloaded only their luggage from the back of the truck, depositing it in the front room.

After the long drive, Anna found herself inexplicably wound-up and wide awake. She showed her companion around the house, and then began fixing them both a late supper of scrambled eggs while Greg turned on his laptop and checked his messages at the dining room table.

"Hey, Ryan's online. I'm gonna go ahead and let him know we made it in, all right love?"

"You've already got him in your contacts?" Anna leaned over to peer through the kitchen doorway. "Wow, you guys really did get along! Okay, sure..."

There was a flurry of typing while she cooked, punctuated here and there by a cheerful electronic ding. Greg looked up, smiling, as she brought out their plates. "Kyle's up too. Told his dad he had a tummyache, like that's not the oldest trick in the book," he chuckled.

"Cutie pie. _Devious_ cutie pie."

They both continued chatting with Ryan through Greg's typed responses, and by the time they finished eating, her brother had convinced them to start a Skype session for the benefit of her nephew. "He wants to see his Auntie Banana's house, and Ryan doesn't think he's ever going to go back to bed at this point if we don't give in," Greg reported, amused.

 

.

 

Anna woke to daylight spreading under the mod-patterned curtains, and the pleasant weight of a warm hand at the small of her back. Yawning, she turned sideways under the covers and snuggled into a closer embrace.

"...Morning, love," Greg eventually murmured, burying his forehead into her neck and breathing deeply. "What time is it?"

"Dunno." She raised her head to see, then tucked it back where it was comfortable. "About eight thirty."

"Mm, should we get up? Didn't you have stuff you wanted to do today?"

"Everything I want to do is right here," she replied, smiling as he idly stroked her back. After a while, she sighed. "Though we do need to get that stupid truck emptied and returned, much as I hate to admit it."

"Oh, yeah. I'm looking forward to that," he chuckled with a hint of sarcasm, sitting up and stretching.

Anna trailed a fingertip lovingly over the muscles of his shoulder blades before sitting up herself and rolling out of bed. "How about I make us some cinnamon rolls, then? I feel like I need to make amends for making you work so hard with me on your holidays."

He caught the belt of her bathrobe by both ends as she put it on, and stood to pull her close. "It's not really work if I'm doing it with you, darling." At her raised eyebrow, he burst into a teasing grin. "Hah, who am I kidding! It's work!"

 

.

 

Just after the rolls went into the oven, Anna bustled around in the main rooms, eyeing the space critically and moving things to make sure they had room for what needed to be brought in. _Most of the boxed stuff is just going to go in the basement for now,_ she thought as she brushed her hands off on her jeans and tugged down the hem of her knit top. _It should be all right after I move these two chairs over there._

Greg finished up in the bathroom and came up the hallway to join her. "Did you see how much it snowed? Looks like we'll need to clear the walk before we get started."

"Yeah, it's not too bad but it definitely needs a little work. There's a little shed out back, I think I saw a snow shovel out there..."

"Here, I'll just go out and take care of that, then," he said briskly, throwing on his overcoat and scarf. "Won't take long, should be ready to go by the time breakfast's done, yeh?"

She peeked out the side window. "Probably. We only need the porch and front walk clear, after all. Have you ever even _seen_ a snow shovel before?"

"I know _of_ them. One end's a handle, right? Piece o' cake," he laughed as he walked off into the kitchen and opened the back door.

Smiling after him, Anna set to moving the first of Andy's matched Craftsman-style armchairs across to the far side of the room. She noted Greg moving past the side window towards the front of the house, as she went back for the second chair. Just as she started to push on it, though, there was an odd muffled shout outside. She straightened, confused, as her cell phone started ringing.

Greg's voice on the phone was tight with a forced calm. "Anna. Put your coat and shoes on and come outside, but use the back door, all right?"

She recognised the familiar tones of Detective Inspector Lestrade in his voice—that clipped, competent tone she only ever heard when he was working or discussing cases—and it sent a chill down her spine. Quickly putting on her outerwear, she made her way out and around the house. The street was quiet and almost completely deserted for the time of day; her companion stood stiffly near the walk but not on it, the shovel lying forgotten behind him. "What's wrong, Greg?"

He pointed silently, and she suddenly realised. _That snow—it's pink. Wait. Pink?_ Clasping his offered hand, she followed him closer to the snow-drifted front stoop. As they approached, it became clear that there was blood under the covering of snow. Quite a fair bit of it, in fact. It puddled on the concrete steps, and trailed down the short sidewalk, and led around toward the back end of her rented U-Haul... _Oh god._

Greg was snapping photos with his phone. "Don't want to disturb anything. But I need to see, before we call," he muttered half to himself. They slowly followed alongside the uneven pink smear, keeping a healthy distance. When they reached the truck, he met her eyes with a grim expression.

 _My padlock's gone,_ she noted, with a detached numbness that overlaid her growing sense of dread.

Releasing her hand, Greg used the sleeve of his coat to carefully disengage the latch. "Brace yourself, love," he breathed, beginning to raise the door.

Anna muffled a short scream with both hands as the light hit a still figure. She stared, shocked, at the outflung arm, the bony wrist, the garish shirt covered in blood, the stringy gray ponytail trailing across the puddled floor of the truck.

"That's F-Frank Hammond," she whispered.

 

\-----

 


	11. John - December 28 - 3:20 PM GMT

  
**11\. John - December 28 - 3:20 PM GMT**  


.

 

Baker Street was a balancing act.

More than ever, John found himself floundering in the presence of his ineffable, maddening, otherworldly companion. He fought to retain a sense of normalcy—at least, whatever state could properly be called normalcy, in a flat where severed ears could be found in proximity to the eggs—but the power to make casual conversation often seemed utterly beyond him, since Christmas Eve. At any given moment, John's brain seemed prone to suddenly disconnect; his thoughts would short circuit and vanish from his grasp, leaving him simply staring openmouthed. Usually at Sherlock.

Thankfully, the other man seemed to take it all in his stride. In fact, he seemed to be positively courteous of his companion's sudden increased difficulty with speech.

 _I think he believes I'm still suffering exhaustion,_ John thought, as he prepared two mugs of tea.

Actually, the nightmares had...changed. John wouldn't say they had "stopped", not even close; but the frequency and intensity with which they woke him had lessened significantly over the last four nights. When he did wake, it was usually with the curious subliminal sense that a violin had just then ceased to play in the next room. He was fairly certain that this was not actually the case, and that his subconscious had begun to manufacture the calming sound on its own. As far as he could tell, Sherlock hadn't actually played his instrument since the party. _Odd, that._

The toaster finished its cycle with a pop, and John occupied himself with butter and jam while he continued to consider the distracting turn his dreams had begun to take. _Last night was the strangest, so far. He was on that damned roof again, going on about being a fake, the supreme git; and so I stepped up behind him, and then I grabbed his hand and he touched my hair and—_ Just then, a noise from the living room jolted him out of his recollection. Balancing the plate on top of his mug, he carefully carried it and Sherlock's mug out together. "What was that?" he inquired.

Sherlock was sitting on one end of the sofa, still in his pyjamas at almost three thirty in the afternoon, with a book in one hand and a closed laptop resting on the seat next to him. "Email notification, John, they do come in once in a while you know." He took the offered mug, returning a twitch of a smile in thanks.

"But that's _my_ laptop," John protested, placing his own tea on the coffee table before sitting at the opposite end with the toast plate.

"Yes; _ergo,_ it's your email notification. Do keep up."

He chewed and swallowed as he processed this. "But I've never heard that noise before."

"I installed an extension program a few weeks ago. It provides unique notification noises for messages matching customised criteria."

He pulled the computer up into his lap and opened it with his free hand. "All right, I'll bite. What type of email makes that particular noise, then?" he asked, looking to the other man rather than at the screen.

Sherlock stretched his lean frame up and over the arm of the sofa for a moment, depositing his book on the floor. "Something from Lestrade, specifically an email including an attachment. The sound repeated twice in quick succession, which signifies that he's marked the message as urgent," he replied, righting himself with a self-satisfied expression and a pleased little toss of his hair. He met the other man's eyes silently for a long moment before finally raising one eyebrow. "...John?"

"Hm?"

"He did mark it urgent."

"What?—Oh!" John's ears burned as he snapped his head forward and pulled up the email window. _What is wrong with me? I'm acting like some lovestruck bloody teenager. Oh god._ "Um...all right, yes, here it is..." He scanned the message. "Sherlock, he's got himself a crime scene!"

"In Ohio?" A second perfect eyebrow lifted to match the first.

"No, they're in Chicago, they were only with her family 'til yesterday. Here,"—he scooted into the centre of the sofa so that they both could see—"he says they discovered this in front of Anna's new house a few minutes ago..." Frowning, John clicked open the attachments one by one.

Sherlock leaned in closer and flicked his eyes to the corner of the screen. "Then they are almost certainly in the midst of dealing with local police forces right now. Lestrade worked quickly to get the email sent off before the authorities arrived, assuming Anna made the call shortly after he took these shots. Wait—go back, back to the second photo of the body."

John complied. "Greg says it's an art gallery owner Anna had been negotiating with. Not only that, but the guy had left her a voicemail yesterday morning about meeting. Think it's enough to throw suspicion on her?"

"Only if the investigating officer is a complete dolt. There must be twenty-seven separate details that rule out either Anna's or Lestrade's guilt here, they're sure to hit on at least one or two. But more importantly, look at his wrist!"

"A tattoo. Looks like...what is that, a little bull's head with a K inside it?"

"That's a stylised devil, not a bull. It's Derek Pattinson's tattoo!" the detective exclaimed. "Don't you see?"

"Hey, you can't expect me to recognise that. I never saw that weapons forger, before _or_ after you sent him to the hospital. If you recall, it was _Anna_ at your beck and call on that case, not me!" He turned his head towards his flatmate at that, only then realizing exactly how close Sherlock had leaned in to study the photographs. John found his nose only a half inch from the other man's cheek. His reflex was to jerk backwards, but in their current position with the computer balanced between them, that was impossible to accomplish; instead, he only managed a severe twitch and a crick in his neck.

"Ah, it's a pity Lestrade couldn't touch anything," Sherlock muttered, seemingly unfazed by the physical discomfort of his companion; by this point, he had leaned over far enough to control the keyboard using both hands. _And yet, he doesn't take it off my lap. Jesus._

"Why's that?" asked John, his voice slightly strangled.

One long finger reached out to tap the image enlarged on the screen. "There's a note in the victim's top pocket. The bit of writing visible, and the angle of its insertion in the pocket, earmark it as a message from the killer rather than something carried by the deceased." Finally, Sherlock pulled back, releasing John from the awkward position as he stood. "Wait twenty more minutes, then text Lestrade—he should be free to respond by then—and find out if he was able to get eyes on that note himself. In the meantime, find us a flight to Chicago; there will be at least one nonstop route this evening. Book it, and I'll have Mycroft expedite our visa waivers. We should have just enough time to pack," he directed briskly, flouncing his dressing gown behind him dramatically as he walked out of the room.

"What, we're going? _Tonight?_ "

The curly dark head popped back into view around the sliding door of the kitchen, eyes alight with excitement. "Of course we are, John! Don't be ridiculous." With that, he was off down the hall.

"Of _course_ we are," he breathed, in fond disbelief.

 

.

 

The non-stop flight to O'Hare was to depart at five fifteen. Having booked two tickets and jogged downstairs to warn Mrs Hudson of their absence, John was left with barely twenty minutes in which to pack his things. As he rummaged through his clean laundry basket and hurriedly filled a rolling suitcase, he received his first response to the texts he'd fired off.

**CPD just took our initial statements, Anna's pretty shaken up. Can't believe you're actually flying in, Sherlock really thinks there's something to this? -GL**

He made a quick count of his socks, tossed in one more pair plus an extra pair of pants for good measure, then picked up the phone to reply.  
**Believe it or not, Sherlock says it's related to the weapons forger. I'll explain later. He's keen to know if you got eyes on the note in the vic's pocket? -JW**

 _Jumpers, shirts, jeans, shoes, one suit just in case—I'll just stick that in Sherlock's suit bag—extra gloves, camera, computer, passport..._ "Where's my damn passport?"

**Didn't, but there should be an assigned detective arriving within the hour. I'll do what I can to try and find out for you soon. -GL**

 

.

 

John cracked a huge yawn to pop his ears for the third time. When the rushing hiss and roar of the plane's cabin finally returned to full volume, he leaned over once more. "What did you say? Couldn't hear properly."

"I said, you needn't feel obligated to remain awake for the duration of the flight. I am quite satisfied to occupy myself," repeated his companion, shifting his long legs awkwardly in the cramped space.

 _Might have sprung for something other than coach, but he wanted the earlier flight and that's what he got, the mad bastard._ "I still can't believe you wanted to drop everything and fly to America. Seriously, Sherlock, I get that there's a connection, but it's not as if you're going to be able to see the actual crime scene!"

"I expect not."

"Then what's the rush? And why go in person?"

A shrug. "For weeks now, I've been picking at the edges of this group's digital activities, with almost nothing to show for it. Teufel Der Kunst is not the most sinister or wide-ranging criminal ring I've encountered—as you well know, far from it—but its methodology is unique and the possible motivations behind it are intriguing. To finally have a physical link, a thread of evidence to follow in person, however fleeting—well. The coincidental involvement of our acquaintances is too good a stroke of luck to pass up."

"Yeah. It's marvelous luck that Anna's been _coincidentally_ traumatised by a dead body. Just ducky for you."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "She'll get over it. She and Lestrade would hardly be so compatible, had she not an above-average mental constitution," he stated matter-of-factly, craning his neck around to examine a passing stewardess.

The offhanded compliment to both their friends caught John off guard. It put him in mind of Sherlock's oddly pleasant behaviour at Christmas...which led unavoidably to thoughts of that incredible music, and the disturbing dreams...which then led him back around to the fact that he was, in truth, pretty damned tired after all. He rolled his neck and did his best to flex his aching shoulder without banging his elbow on the cabin wall. "I dunno. I wouldn't mind getting some kip, but..."

"Ah. You're worried you'll draw attention to yourself with your frequent—"

"Shut it," came the sharp warning.

Sherlock cocked his head to one side. "You really do have quite an ingrained phobia about that, don't you?" Putting up his hands in a gentle gesture of submission against his friend's thunderous glare, he murmured, "Please, John. I just want to help." His deep voice was almost inaudible under the noise of the plane.

John felt his face heating, and peered determinedly out the little window in an effort to hide it. "How," he gritted out, throat tight. "How could you possibly."

"I've done some research."

 _Of course you have,_ he thought, resignedly. _Oh, hell._ He let out a deep sigh, still staring out at the wing of the plane.

"And, although I have _not_ been in any way conducting nor planning to conduct experiments,"—his insistence on this point forestalled John's reflexive complaint—"there are one or two techniques that could be useful to you in situations such as this."

"Such as this?" the older man prompted wearily, closing his eyes and tilting his head back against the seat.

Sherlock sounded reassured by the fact that his companion hadn't immediately closed down the discussion; he continued in a smooth, quiet voice. "Your paranoia appears to have its root, not in the fact of night terrors themselves, but in the idea of being witnessed having them. Is this a fair premise?"

John's stomach clenched, and his jaw tightened, but he kept his eyes closed. "I suppose so..." _Though, y'know, not having them at all would be just great, actually._

"Well, consider this. You feel exposed to the other people on this plane, but it's actually quite private. We're seated in a row across the aisle from two elderly Germans in the centre section; the husband, a retired professor, has a severe hearing deficiency and is engrossed in reading Kafka, and his wife took a sleeping pill thirty minutes ago. You're on the window side, and as I am taller, I can manoeuvre easily to interpose myself between you and the sight line of anyone passing in the aisle. We've already established that the background noise makes it difficult to overhear people. That leaves only me...and you seem to have finally reconciled yourself somewhat to my limited knowledge of your situation."

He grunted in response. "Fine. All right, what the hell. You try your idea, Sherlock, and I'll try to keep an open mind." _I may well regret this later. But what else am I going to bloody do?_

"Very well." Now the other man sounded surprised, and somewhat pleased. "So, I'm going to do just this..."

A hand brushed against John's arm tentatively, causing him to jump a little before he schooled himself back to stillness. He allowed himself to be manipulated so that his right arm lay over the other man's left, and his hand rested at the detective's wrist; his fingers recognised the consistent thrum of Sherlock's pulse. He squeezed his eyelids tightly shut for a moment, furrowing his brow.

"John, I'm not going to move." His companion's voice was pitched low, and sounded closer to his ear, speaking slowly and rhythmically. "Relax. I'm right here, you'll be able to tell I'm here."

John gave a tiny nod and licked his lips. _Damn right I can tell you're there. Right, then. Relaxing, get to it. Gotta relax._ Slowly releasing the tension he carried, he placed his focus into the delicate sensation at his fingertips, and followed Sherlock's reassuring drone as it continued on in a steady stream of words.

"If you do have a bad dream I'll be ready to wake you quietly, and no-one else will know. All right? Nobody will know." There was a pause. "I won't leave you, John."

"Sherlock..."

"Yes?"

"Shut up, now?"

 

\-----

 


	12. Anna - December 28 - 11:30 AM CST

  
**12\. Anna - December 28 - 11:30 AM CST**  


.

 

The tissue in Anna's hands was twisted and mangled almost into shreds, but still she fidgeted at it. She stared at the white twist, at the tiny cottony bits beginning to litter the knees of her jeans, then back up to the ceiling. Their cinnamon rolls had burned in the oven two hours ago, and the stink still contaminated the house.

Greg returned from the bathroom to the half-empty living room, tucking his phone into his pocket and nodding as he passed to the officer standing idle in the front entryway. He sat with Anna on the small loveseat tucked into the bay window. "Hey, sweetheart. All right?"

She turned and offered him a shaky smile. "I suppose so. How long does this part usually take?" she asked, gesturing behind her at the havoc still going on outside the window.

"They'll probably take a few more hours at this point before most of them are gone. And I'll warn you, they'll likely take the lorry with them till they're done processing it."

"Great, just great. I didn't really need my furniture in here yet, did I. Will they at least do something about the rental return date? Or do I get charged for it?"

"I'm not the best person to ask, love, I only know London procedurals—but I'm sure the detective could tell you when he finally comes in to talk to us."

"Is that him, on the front porch?" She peered out through the sheer curtain. "The one with the shirt and tie under his bulletproof vest? It's so weird, he looks really familiar..."

As if summoned by her words, the man in question opened the front door and walked in: tall, lean build, impeccably neat white-blond hair and a face that came straight from her past. He started speaking in a professional tone without looking up, as he verified details in his notepad. "All right, Ms Clark, if you don't mind, let's just go over a few details, okay?" He and the waiting policeman exchanged a nod, and the officer rejoined the others outside, shutting the front door behind him. Looking up, the blond man continued, "I'm Detective Garvey, and I'll be...um."

She snapped her dropped jaw shut. "God, _Detective Garvey!_ " Anna choked out something that might have been a laugh, if her chest wasn't so very tight. "This is freaking unbelievable."

The detective's own eyes were wide, and he looked down at his notes and up again, disbelievingly. "Ms Clark."

Greg raised an eyebrow and looked back and forth between the two, waiting patiently for enlightenment.

"I can't believe it. I simply can _not_ believe it. Sixteen years later, and now you're a detective. In Chicago, of all places. What are the odds?"

"I've been in Chicago about ten years. But I thought you were still living in Ohio...Ms Clark." He emphasised the _"mizz"_ as he said it again, with a furrowed brow.

"Chaz. Can't you just call me Anna, for God's sake?"

He grimaced and looked back over his shoulder and around the room. Nervously touching his tie, he spoke in a low tone once he was sure none of the other officers had stayed in the small house. "Only if you don't call me that. I go by Charles now, on the force. Look, we can't have anyone knowing that I know you, okay?"

"And I guess I shouldn't mention to anyone, then, that this house belonged to an ex-boyfriend of yours," she muttered, feeling a little petty.

"What? Wait, really?—No, Anna, _please_ don't do that," he snapped back. "Let's just be professional and get through this, and we can rehash all the college shit later. For now, even though I'm sure there's certainly enough reason for me not to be involved on this case, I'm sticking with it until I have a real reason not to. And that means, as far as anyone else is concerned, you and I do _not_ know each other, got it?"

Greg spoke up. "It's really not as bad a conflict of interest as all that, is it? Sure, so you apparently knew each other...but you hadn't seen each other in sixteen years, is that right?"

"That's right," she replied. "Cha— _Charles_ here completely disappeared after my wedding, and I never heard from him again. He never even set up a profile online, anywhere I could find." _And I did look, damn it._

Detective Garvey heaved a sigh. "Because I needed to start over. I'm sorry, Anna, but I'm just not the same person you knew in school. Now. I need to check over these notes my officer took, all right?"

She nodded, focusing on shredding her tissue once more, the urge to bicker drained out of her.

"You and Mister Lestrade arrived here in the truck at approximately ten fifteen last night. You unlocked the rear of the truck, got out just your luggage, and locked it back up with a padlock. Correct?"

"Yes."

Garvey flipped a page to check a separate note, then flipped back. "Snowfall last night in this area was recorded between ten forty-five and eleven thirty. And...you didn't go back outside until this morning at about nine."

"Greg went out the back door at about a quarter after nine, and I came out three minutes later, at the most," she sighed.

"But you were alone last night, the two of you?"

"Unless you count online chat," the older man offered. "We talked to her youngest brother for about ten minutes, and then Skyped with him and his son for, I dunno, it must have been close to forty minutes. It was definitely after eleven when we signed off."

The blond detective made a note in his pad. "Not completely ideal, considering..."

"Even if the video chat was recorded?" In response to Anna's questioning look, Greg shrugged. "We've got a long distance relationship, I wanted to be able to save our moments together, yeh? So I asked Ryan about it at Christmas, and he found me this extension program that records all the chat sessions. Y'know, so I can watch it again, and pull still photos from the video if I want."

"Oh my gosh, that is too adorable," Anna whispered, squeezing his arm.

Detective Garvey looked as if he was trying uncomfortably to keep a straight face. "All right, that's something we can use to establish timeline. Would you mind if I saw that video, Mister Lestrade?"

Greg stood. "I'll play it for you, sure. But if you don't mind, first I'd like to let you in on some important details your officer apparently didn't get down. For one thing, my identification..." He pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his trousers and opened it to his Met ID before handing it over.

Garvey's eyebrows rose briefly and he gave the other man an assessing look. "All right. My apologies, Detective Inspector," he said, standing straighter as he gave the wallet back. "Looks like this case is just irregular all around." He glanced at Anna with a small frown.

"And, speaking of irregularities," Greg continued, "I need to tell you one other thing. Before you lot arrived, I emailed photos of the scene to a colleague of mine in London: one Sherlock Holmes. He's a consulting detective. A true genius. Well,"—here he pulled out his phone, and activated the screen—"he's saying there's a definitive link here to a multinational criminal group he's already been tracking. It might be nothing as far as your case is concerned, might not. Either way, I have to warn you; he got on a plane bound for O'Hare about twenty-five minutes ago, and he'll probably be asking to talk to you tomorrow."

Anna stood up and cut in, shocked, before the policeman could respond. "Sherlock's coming _here?_ Wait, a link? To what?"

"To the weapons forger; _you_ know the one. And I dunno what he saw in my photos, John said they'd explain later." He showed her the text.

"What the hell? How do I have a dead _body,_ here, HERE, related to Pattinson?" Her eyes were wide; the tissue fell finally, in pieces, to the carpet.

Greg opened his mouth to reply, but Detective Garvey cut them both off sharply. "Whoa! I don't know what the hell is going on here, but if you think I'm turning over an active homicide investigation to some—international _consultant_ —"

"Look, mate, I'm just telling you what's happened, before you would've found my outgoing email anyway. Best to be up front, yeh? I sincerely doubt Sherlock will be 'taking over'. You talk him through your evidence, maybe give him a quick peek, and chances are he'll give you everything you need to close your case properly on your own. And then he'll get the information _he_ needs to take down the larger group, if all goes well."

Garvey looked skeptical, and Anna couldn't blame him. "Google him, Detective. Greg's not kidding."

"Well..."

"No, really, go right ahead," Greg agreed, leading them all over to the dining room table. "I still don't understand how Americans don't seem to know anything about Holmes, but it's public knowledge the calibre of work he does. Here, you were going to be searching my computer anyway. Have at it."

As the detective reluctantly sat down, Anna shared a little smile with her companion behind his back. Watching someone Google 'Sherlock Holmes' reminded her of when _she'd_ been the clueless American tourist, doing the same thing out of curiosity. _Good memories,_ she thought, taking Greg's hand and leaning up into his side.

 

.

 

Eventually Detective Garvey finished with Greg's computer, having looked at the email message to Sherlock and watched most of the video chat. Anna and Greg had moved back to the loveseat, discussing in low tones what time the flight was to arrive and whether John had booked hotel rooms; they had left the other man to his work without comment. When Garvey returned from the dining room, he was much more subdued; he pulled the small footstool over to sit facing the couple, hunched forward, hands clasped and elbows resting on his knees.

"That kid was only seventeen the last time I saw him," he mused, gazing down at the floor.

Anna took the mention of her little brother as permission to speak about their history, finally. "I know, and now he's thirty-five, with a four-year-old. Hardly seems real, does it?"

He smoothed a hand over his blond hair, nodding as he looked up. For a moment, the detective's officious, image-conscious façade slipped, and Anna could see the sensitive, sweet guy she knew.

 _Or at least I thought I knew._ She pursed her lips and leaned forward. "Can I just ask, what the hell happened with you? Did you really leave in the middle of my wedding reception and just decide you'd never talk to me again?"

A pained look passed over his face. "It was more complicated than that. I'm sorry I upset you, but you needed Andy in your life more than you needed me."

"I suppose Andy would have had a snappy comeback for that, but I've got nothing. It hurt, Chaz. Sorry. Charles."

He hung his head lower in acknowledgement, and after a pause he spoke again. "...What do you mean, 'would have had'?"

She reached out without looking to take Greg's instantly offered hand. "Oh god, you don't know...of course not. Andy passed away in October," she said, softly. "He left me this house. And, if you didn't know that, then you probably don't know that David died of a heart attack in August of last year."

The blond man looked up, with a stricken expression. "I'm so sorry to hear it—for both of them." His eyes flicked briefly toward Greg. "So you and David weren't separated, or..."

"No, not at all! We were very happy."

"Good." He nodded at the floor, frowning. "Good. I always wished the best for you two."

There was a moment of thoughtful silence before Detective Garvey spoke again, in a more official tone. "So this was Andrew Hardwick's house. And maybe it wasn't common knowledge that he'd passed. But can you think of a reason why someone would be threatening him?"

Greg had been still and quiet this whole time, but he perked up at this. "What do you mean?"

"We found a message in the victim's pocket," Garvey replied.

Greg's hand tightened on Anna's, but she didn't understand why. He cleared his throat and spoke. "May I ask what it said?"

"The note reads: 'You can't hide forever, Drew. The Devil will get his due.' "

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're confused, you can look back to Part 2 of Stitching Up The Tears: during Anna's first private chat with Sherlock, she briefly recalls the story of Andy and Chaz's relationship, during their freshman year of college. :)


	13. John - December 28 - 8:45 PM CST

  
**13\. John - December 28 - 8:45 PM CST**   


.

 

A loud buzzer sounded, and the baggage carousel lurched into motion behind John's back. He nodded pointedly at his friend— _you watch_ —and stepped further out away from the rumbling noise, putting a finger in the ear opposite from his phone.

"John. Landed, I take it?" Greg's voice was staticky and almost inaudible over the increasing babble of deplaned passengers.

"Yes, waiting on baggage now," he replied loudly. "Give it another, er, five minutes, and we'll be out. Terminal five."

"Great—we're just over in the mobile phone waiting lot, we'll pull round shortly. Watch for a dark blue Honda."

John disconnected and turned in place, immediately picking out the distinctive dark curls that denoted Sherlock's position, head and shoulders above much of the milling crowd. As he watched, the man sprang forward and scooped up John's case. He took a few quick sidesteps, lunging nimbly past a young mother pushing a stroller, and dipped forward again to retrieve his own suit bag and small case. _Everything that man does is like a bloody performance,_ John thought, allowing himself a fond little smile as his companion made a graceful turn and approached triumphantly with their luggage.

 

.

 

As Anna's vehicle pulled up to the kerb, Greg hopped out and pulled open the trunk. "Evening, boys. Here, I'll take that," he offered; as he was occupied loading the bags, Sherlock wordlessly slipped into the front seat the older man had just vacated. Seeing this, Greg threw John one of their private that's-Sherlock-for-you expressions, then moved around and hopped in the back on the driver's side, leaving John to take the seat directly behind his flatmate.

"Hi, guys," Anna muttered without really looking as they all settled themselves; she seemed focused far more on navigating the crush of traffic pulling through the terminal area than on greeting her guests, and John couldn't blame her. She guided the car out carefully, asking only, "Where are we going? My place or a hotel?" Although she spoke in a fairly pleasant tone, he could see her hands tight on the wheel and her frowning face in profile.

Greg shrugged in response to John's inquiring glance. "Not all that much to see at the scene now; Anna couldn't schedule someone to clean the walk till tomorrow afternoon, and it's dark now at any rate. They tarped it so they wouldn't have to keep a floodlight going all night. Plus, the lorry's in custody. And, since we never got to unload it, there's somewhat of a lack of furniture in Anna's home; we didn't get to ask if you'd booked rooms though?"

John began, "Actually we didn't have time—"

Sherlock tossed his head and spoke over him. "Hyatt Regency, McCormick Place. Are you familiar with it, Anna?"

"Um. Just off Lake Shore, at the convention center, right?" At Sherlock's curt nod, she changed lanes and took an exit. "Not a bad choice," she commented as they merged onto the highway. "Close to my area, and recognisable enough that I'd be likely to remember it, even though I haven't lived here long. Fairly nice, too, from what I've heard."

"It appeared ideal for our purposes," he agreed, running a hand through his curls.

Greg turned from looking out the side window. "Wait, you knew which neighbourhood she lives in?"

Sherlock turned his head and fixed the DI with a sardonic look. "You _did_ send photos, Lestrade."

"Yeah, but just the pavement and the porch—You know what? Never mind."

Anna burst into sudden giggles at that; John could practically see the day's tension cracking and rolling off her in waves. The mood was contagious, and within moments both John and Greg were laughing too, wheezing gasps and full belly-laughs that echoed off the fogging windows of the small car.

 

.

 

The large high-rise hotel had a fair amount of Sunday night activity, but there didn't seem to be a convention currently going, for which John was grateful. _Of course, when Sherlock made his decision—when did he do that, anyway?—he almost certainly took that factor into account._ Sherlock dealt with the counter staff, and shortly led them up to a large room with two double beds, on the twenty-ninth floor.

He turned aside to John as they all made their way in and shed their coats and shoes. "I do hope this is suitable. A double room was the more economical choice, since we don't know the length of our stay," he murmured, with a cautious expression.

"This will be fine, Sherlock," John assured him, nodding curtly. In truth, he _was_ a little uneasy at it, but after the odd situation on the plane, he supposed he could surely handle sleeping in the same room as his flatmate. Eventually.

After some discussion, Greg used the room phone to order food up for three of their foursome. The fourth, as usual, dismissively insisted that he wasn't hungry, curling himself catlike into one of the sleek modern armchairs by the window.

John sat cross-legged on the bed closest to the door, before turning to the woman stretched out on her stomach across the upper half of the same bed. "So...how are you holding up?"

"Feels like the second longest day ever," Anna sighed, resting her cheek on her crossed arms and looking up at him. "I'm just thankful we managed to avoid getting interviewed when the media showed up. I really don't think I could have handled having my face on the local news this morning. How about you?"

"Can't complain I suppose. I certainly didn't expect to spend nine hours of my evening on a plane, but all in all, I've had worse days," he quipped, sharing a weary smile with her.

Greg hung up the phone and made himself comfortable, stretching his legs out on the second bed and linking his hands behind his head. "Right, Sherlock, so we did finally get Detective Garvey to let us in on things a bit, this morning." He paused at Anna's little snort, and exchanged a wry look with her as he continued. "As it turns out, he and Anna knew each other back in uni. It's a complete coincidence, but it works in our favour, as far as getting you limited access. He's not completely convinced he should trust us to be involved, of course, but he did at least tell us today what was on that note: 'You can't hide forever, Drew. The Devil will get his due.' "

"Mm," Sherlock responded, touching his index fingers together at his lips. "So the investigative team will naturally start by pursuing leads in reference to threats towards your deceased friend, Anna. But you believe them to be wrong."

Startled, she raised her head and frowned. "Well, yeah! I may not have been in touch with Andy for a while, but I knew him well. Really well."

"And you are somehow absolutely certain he has no connection to this criminal group. Based purely on a ridiculous notion of _sentiment_ for someone from whom you voluntarily estranged yourself more than half a decade ago!" Sherlock's voice sounded cold and heartless, but John—experienced like no-one else in his subtle tells—could see that it was more than simple provocation: _he's digging for something, isn't he?_

Anna had sat up while Sherlock spoke, and was now crouched on her heels, clenching fists on the white coverlet. Her answer was sharp and rang of painful certainty. "He had his problems, yes. But you'll have to find me more proof than a _weird note_ before I'll believe he was involved in anything more serious than his own personal drug habit! Besides, he never shortened his name to Drew. Not ever; he _hated_ that name, ever since we were seven years old!"

Sherlock nodded with a slow blink, his voice mild once more. "And there it is."

"There _what_ is?" Greg grated; he had come alive, as well, at Sherlock's harsh words towards his beloved, and looked to be moments away from jumping at the younger man.

"The pivotal fact, Lestrade. I am quite prepared to believe Anna; calm yourself. Tomorrow we shall see her home, we shall meet with this local detective, and then we'll do some research. I have a few theories..."

Greg ran a hand over his hair, subsiding slightly. "The pivotal fact. Pray tell."

John cleared his throat. "Well, it's got to be the name, hasn't it?" he asked, looking from one man to the other and back. "The note and the victim are both definitely connected to TDK, but if Anna's right and Andy _isn't_ linked, then it's a case of mistaken identity."

"Precisely, John!"

As Sherlock graced him briefly with a wide smile, John felt a distinct and lately-familiar flutter in his stomach. He stood, intending to disappear into the bathroom for a few minutes to get a handle on himself. The knock from room service came just then, with impeccable timing, giving him an even better excuse to break the line of sight. Opening the door, he occupied himself with collecting their dinner, willing the strangeness to pass.

He heard Anna's voice behind him: "So, explain to us what this 'TDK' is that you both already know all about. Is it really the same people that ran the forged weapons scheme?"

Sherlock launched proudly into a long recitation of the connections which had led him to the discovery of Teufel Der Kunst, and the data trail he was still tracking to learn more about their activities. As they listened, John brought in the three trays and distributed them around: Cobb salad for Anna, and prime rib sandwich for Greg. He took his own tray over to the little table, sitting to eat his burger while oh-so-casually leaving his double order of chips within reach of his flatmate.

Before long, as he had expected, slender fingers crept across the table and tweaked one from the pile surreptitiously. According to long habit, John showed no outward satisfaction or sign of noticing the stolen food as chips slowly disappeared from his plate one by one. He focused instead on the sandwich in his hands and the continuing conversation about the case, and tried to ignore the way Sherlock's presence glowed like a warm spot in his vision each time he closed his eyes.

_Damn, this is going to be a long night._

 

.

 

John lay awake, curled on his side in the bed closest the door. He was still tired, whatever he had assured Greg and Anna before they'd finally left; while he had gotten rest on the flight over—a surprising amount, actually, having only jerked himself awake twice—he had been running on enough of a deficit lately that he felt a bit tired almost all the time. Still, the fact of Sherlock's presence in the darkened hotel room was enough to keep his mind spinning. When John had returned from the bathroom in his pyjama bottoms and worn T-shirt, he'd found Sherlock still silently huddled in the armchair, but having turned the chair to face the window almost completely. The tall man sat in the dark, still as a carving, inscrutably scanning the view of the Chicago skyline and lakefront to the north; he seemed to be completely immersed in his thoughts, as he hadn't responded to John's muttered "good-night", nor had he made any audible movements since. John supposed this should be reassuring— _better than him sitting and staring at me while I sleep, right?_

_Right. If I ever sleep._

He fought the urge to punch the too-squashy hotel pillow into submission under his neck, instead shifting his weight across it gradually and silently, with eyes pressed closed, listening intently for any shift in Sherlock's position while he tried to find a better one for himself. He found his thoughts centred irresistibly on the man at the window, building a picture behind his eyelids that grew and changed almost against his will: in his mind, the silhouette of wild, unruly curls and broad shoulders against the lights of the city turned away from the glass to face him, and reached out one elegant, shadowy hand as if to touch from across the room. And oh, how he wanted to reach back and meet that touch...

John popped his eyes open, finding the line of light under the door to the hotel hallway, staring at it until his eyes watered and the after-image burned with green fire in every blink. _Why can't I keep myself under control lately? I need to stop this, stop it from being so bloody obvious! He may have confessed to feeling something, but I'm pretty damn sure it's not...this. I couldn't talk about it back in October, and I can't talk about it now, because whatever he thinks he's feeling, this has to be more. Has to. It's obvious, right? 'Overwhelming sentiment'—what he'd consider overwhelming, that's not even on the same planet, is it?_ He gritted his teeth silently and clenched a fist tight under the covers, focusing on the sensation of the nails biting his palm. _No. Not even close to what I've got burning under my goddamn skin! He's all thought, all brain, a massive computer. Just listen to him over there, presiding over his bleeding mind palace. Any small amount of emotion is a significant revelation to him! So, yeah. He thought he needed to confess, tell me he considers me such a good friend, right? That had to be what he meant, surely, or only a little bit more than that. But if he knew—if he really knew what's eating me up—he'd be put off. Completely. I can't have that with him. I could never have that, I've always known I couldn't!_

For a moment, John marvelled at the utter completeness with which that maddening, incredible man had upended his entire world. Gradually his entire concept of himself had changed; subtly at first, then with a wrenching pain and regret that had gutted him for three long years, 'til the point when he had finally had to admit he did want it. Had wanted it. _And then he was back, this impossible amazing git, and I had to lock it all away for the sake of keeping him. It hurt more, but wasn't it safer somehow when he was gone for good? That I couldn't fear losing him by wanting too much, if he were already lost?_ Eventually, his repeated circle of doubtful thoughts and self-recrimination slowed, and fragmented into ever-more surreal flashes of pale skin and gray-blue eyes that followed him into a dream, even as his last conscious thought was _no._

_Don't fall._

 

\-----

 


	14. Anna - December 29 - 9:00 AM

  
**14\. Anna - December 29 - 9:00 AM**   


.

 

Even though they were both well acquainted with the long flight from London and the subsequent time distortion, Anna and Greg had remained in the hotel room until sometime past midnight. Greg, having dealt with jetlag more recently, was slightly more apologetic than she; but every time he'd made offhand noises about leaving the other two men, Sherlock had predictably scoffed at the idea of sleep, and John had assured them all repeatedly that he'd gotten hours of rest on the plane.

Anna hadn't given much thought to whether she was keeping everyone up too late. She was more occupied with worrying thoughts about returning to the Bridgeport house at night. _Somebody died there. Right there. While I was just inside, only a few feet away..._ Eventually she had given in to Greg's pointed comments and they had made the six-minute drive home; exhausted as she was, she lay awake till almost four, listening to the soft snores of the man beside her and straining her ears fruitlessly for any possible noise outside.

When bright sunlight finally dragged her from uneasy sleep— _I've really got to look into some light-blocking fabric!_ —she saw Greg already up and moving briskly around the bedroom.

"Morning, sweet," he smiled, pulling on dark gray trousers and rummaging in his suitcase. "You can sleep longer if you'd like, you could probably use it...but I just got a text from Sherlock, they'll be leaving in about fifteen minutes to get a cab over."

"Mmph. Okay. No, I'll get up, I don't want Sherlock wandering around Andy's house and deducing his whole life story if I'm not there to see it," she muttered, sitting up and rubbing grit from her eyes.

"Right then. You go ahead and get ready; I'll make us a pot of coffee."

 

.

 

Anna showered and dressed quickly, pairing a cozy fleece top and a long denim skirt with warm and cheerful knee socks and lace-up boots. Running a comb through the wet hair loose over her shoulders, she joined her companion in the front room. "All right, where's this coffee I was promised," she grumbled, yawning.

Greg was sitting on the loveseat, twisted around to contemplate the bay window's view of the crime-scene tarps on the front walk. "That's the girl I love. Morning person through and through," he grinned, pulling her down to sit with a kiss before hopping up himself to pour coffee for them both.

Stretching, she turned to peer out the window where Greg had been looking. _It's surreal, somehow, that people driving by have no idea someone died right there._ She watched a dark green sedan passing slowly, and wondered briefly whether the driver had even noticed the blue tarps on the way past.

Just as her companion returned to the front room, a knock came at the front door; he nodded, handing Anna's mug down to her and carrying his own with him to answer it.

"Morning, Greg," said John as he entered, carrying a white paper bag. "I think you might want to join Sherlock outside for a bit, first thing he did when he jumped out of the cab was to start looking under those tarpaulins..." He considerately held Greg's mug for him as the DI threw on his overcoat, then gave it back to take outside with him.

Anna patted the seat next to her, sipping at her own coffee. "Good morning! Welcome, John. Have a seat, and pour yourself some coffee first if you like. Mugs in the second cabinet." She received the bag he held out, with a confused frown. "What's this?"

John smiled as he turned and made his way to the kitchen, setting down a canvas messenger bag on his way past the dining table. "They have a little bakery counter at the hotel," he called behind him as he found himself a mug. "Sherlock insisted that he bring you a cheese pastry. Think he picked out a blueberry scone for Greg."

"I still have no idea how he figured out that was my favorite, the showoff," she replied, shaking her head fondly as John returned and joined her. "Do I have some distinguishing facial feature or quirk in the way I dress that just screams 'lover of cheese pastries'?"

He laughed, shaking his head. "Who knows? The science of pastry deduction isn't a topic we've ever covered, that I recall."

"Well, it's very thoughtful. And I know Greg loves blueberry, too. Y'know, for all the stories I've heard him tell about Sherlock's rudeness..."

"You really, really aren't the norm, you know," replied John, making a little face of utter relief as his first swallow of coffee went down.

"Oh, I know. And I realise exactly how lucky that makes me. I just haven't had the privilege of watching him with someone he didn't care about; I think it would be interesting."

"You'll likely get that opportunity today. This CPD detective, Greg said you knew him; think he'll take well to being summarily deduced and insulted?"

"He can handle it, I think. And I personally can't _wait_ to see it happen; he deserves it, in my humble opinion." She paused and looked at her guest over her mug. "John, I'm sorry I kept you up so late last night! You look exhausted."

He shook his head. "No worries, Anna. I'm not a good sleeper lately, nothing to do with you...And how did you sleep last night?"

"Ugh, barely," she answered with a grimace.

They both took another slow sip in silence, until John spoke quietly. "It was your first."

She didn't need any explanation beyond his gentle look of understanding. _My first dead body._ "Yes."

"I could tell you it gets easier. Well. In some ways, it doesn't."

Her eyes drifted out the window to the two men crouched on opposite sides of the walk. She watched the man she loved, sipping coffee over a bloody smear, his face serious and his breath making puffs in the air as he described something with abrupt little gestures. _How much horror and death has he had to see?_ "Between the three of you, you must have seen it all. No wonder you can't sleep," she murmured, turning her eyes back to the doctor, who was also watching the consultation going on outside.

His ears turned red and he turned his head away from the window, dropping his eyes into his mug; this was definitely not the reaction Anna was expecting. She watched him, feeling wheels beginning to spin in her head, as she tentatively spoke again. "John? Is everything all right—with you and Sherlock?"

The name, spoken aloud, seemed to run through him like a small electric shock. He met her gaze with eyes that narrowed for just a moment, then widened; his knuckles went white around the ceramic he clutched near his chest. "You,"—he licked his lips and cleared his throat to try again—"you know. I keep forgetting, you were there that day."

Anna knew exactly which day; she nodded, a small, jerky motion as she felt her stomach lurch and drop. "Yes. I was there that day. And before. I'm sorry...Greg told me I maybe shouldn't have..."

"Sh-shouldn't have what?"

It was Anna's turn to blush and study her drink. "I got him talking to me. And when he told me—well, it was _really_ bothering him, so I tried to give him some advice. I shouldn't have meddled." She was speaking faster now, her eyes squeezing shut, words tumbling out as her face got hotter and hotter. "I'm so sorry John, I swear I thought you'd want to know, it really seemed like it was mutual and—god, I'm _never_ giving anyone advice on love again—"

"Wait." His voice rasped, and she looked up to see his face gone slack and pale. "You said—love?"

She worried her lower lip between her teeth, nodding.

"He actually used _that word?_ "

Her mouth opened, but before she could say anything more they both heard the stamping of snowy shoes at the door. John stood quickly and strode off into the kitchen, and Anna had only a moment more to compose herself before the other two men came in.

"—and you'll need to tell him to bring their photos from the lorry, of course," Sherlock directed over his shoulder as he stepped inside. He turned in a slow circle to scan the room, removing his coat as he did so and hanging it on one of the hooks behind the door, before meeting Anna's eyes.

"Good morning, Sherlock. Thanks for breakfast," she said, as calmly as she could muster. _Oh, I really hope I'm not still blushing._

His eyes flicked over her, noting the bag still sitting unopened on the footstool; Greg gave him a nudge from behind and pushed past to set down his empty mug and get his own coat hung up. "Oi! At least let me in far enough to shut the door, arse," he grunted. "Did you say breakfast?"

Anna reached down and opened the bag, producing the scone and handing it over. He sat down in the space John had vacated, looking up with a raised brow and a tiny smile. "All right—maybe not such an arse, after all."

Sherlock sniffed in response and moved over toward the far side of the room, surveying the framed pieces hung on the walls over the two armchairs.

Leaning over to kiss Greg on his wind-chilled cheek, she stood and approached the taller man. She moved slowly behind him, nibbling at her pastry and watching him study photographs of Andy with his sister, of young Anna and the others in their little high school clique of oddballs, of the waterfall he'd always loved hiking to in the Hocking Hills.

"He was quite attached to his memories," Sherlock murmured.

"He was," she agreed softly, imagining Andy standing in her place, hammer and picture hangers in his hands.

 

.

 

Anna followed Sherlock all the way around the room and down the little hallway as he continued his examination. Behind her, she could hear Greg talking briefly on the phone—with Detective Garvey, she assumed—and then John saying something in a pleasant, conversational tone, muffled as she let Sherlock into the bedroom.

"I'm sorry if this is more difficult, since I've moved into the house," she said, impulsively straightening the bedclothes she and Greg had left mussed.

Sherlock gestured offhandedly. "Hardly. The strata are distinct: Lestrade's things and your frequently moved personal items, atop your less-used personal items, atop Andy's furnishings and decor. He was the one who arranged the layout of this room; you, however, changed the location of the mirror on the south wall once you arrived, and added that shelving unit, there. You also removed something from this wall, here—some sort of mask?"

"It was a plaster cast of Abraham Lincoln's life-mask. He'd had it for years, I always thought it was creepy. Figured, that he kept it where it would look out over the bed, the weirdo," she answered, crossing her arms over her stomach. "Right as always, on everything...so, is it even useful at all, seeing all this?"

"Mm." He pulled his head out of the closet, examined the hinges on its door, then swept back out into the hall and across to the generously-sized bathroom.

 _That's not an answer._ Sighing, she followed and stood in the doorway, watching with some surprise as he laid himself flat out on the floor; storm-blue silk stretched and pulled across his lean back as he examined the green tile floor and painted skirting boards, folding back up into a low crouch and continuing his scrutiny up the walls.

Finally, he looked up at her with a carefully neutral expression, clasping arms around his knees as he remained sitting, incongruously, on the shaggy beige mat in the centre of the bathroom floor. "He spent a lot of time here," he stated.

"It's the bathroom, I expect most people spend a good amount of time in their bathrooms."

"No, here. On the floor. Most usually, curled on his side, facing this wall."

Anna stepped backwards involuntarily, one hand coming up to her mouth. "Oh...god...Ex-excuse me—" She hurried back up the hall, blindly grabbing the keyring off the sideboard and moving at speed by the time she made it out the front door, where she was confronted by the blue tarp covering three-quarters of the width of the stairs. Gasping, her throat tight, she danced past on the edges of the steps, and from there she broke into a run; she reached her blue Honda and unlocked it, her hands shaking so that she could barely hold the key. Sliding finally into the cold leather seat of her own space, away from _that house—his things—his memories—his pain—his overdose,_ the tears finally burst free, and she let them loose, sobbing over her steering wheel. The windows were obscured by frost, and her hitching breath clouded in front of her.

After a time—she didn't know how long—a soft knock came at the passenger side window; the door opened and someone slid quietly into the seat next to her. When she looked up, still shuddering and choking on sobs, she saw him offering a box of tissues he'd brought out from the living room. "G-Greg."

"It's all right, love. C'mere."

 

\-----

 


	15. John - December 29 - 10:30 AM

  
**15\. John - December 29 - 10:30 AM**   


.

 

"Yeah, and by the time Sherlock warned me the guy was anaemic, he'd already practically downed half the wine glass, so pretty soon—" John cut off his tale about Christmas Eve in mid-sentence, startled by Anna's sudden appearance from the hallway. He and Greg swivelled their heads, eyes wide, to watch; she careened past them at a clip, grabbing a set of keys from a table, and was gone with no hesitation and no coat, slamming the front door behind her. Stretching around to look out the window, John could see her break into a stumbling run, away from the tarp-covered pavement, out to the car she'd left parked on the street nearby.

"She's not...leaving?" Greg said, after a stunned moment of silence in which they stared helplessly at each other.

John set his jaw and stood, striding down the hallway from where Anna had come; he turned the corner to see Sherlock sitting still in the middle of the bathroom floor, knees hugged against his chest. "What the hell happened?"

The younger man raised his head, a pained expression flitting across his face like a cloud over the sun, there and then gone. "I told Anna about the time her friend spent in this room; it was upsetting." Looking past John's shoulder, he said, "Lestrade—you will want to carry out a box of tissues when you go to her. I noticed she didn't have any in her vehicle last night."

"Right." Greg didn't question any further; he turned and disappeared without another word. Moments later John heard the front door open and close once more.

He smoothed a palm over his wheat-coloured hair and studied his companion, who was making no move to get up. "Drugs, yeah? Withdrawal here?"

"Correct." Again, just a subtle hint of expression, almost quick enough to convince the doctor he'd imagined it. He put a name to it in his mind: _flashback._

"Well. What is it you didn't you get to tell Anna? I can tell there's something. Besides this..." _Besides whatever memory you've got replaying in that brain of yours._

Sherlock shook his head slightly, dislodging one dark curl to fall into his eye. "It's not relevant to the case. It can wait."

After allowing his friend one more brief moment to commune with his past self on the bathroom floor, he silently stepped closer. He held out his hand and Sherlock took it, allowing John's wholly unnecessary assistance in standing up.

"John," he murmured as he stood; the arc of the movement brought them close, chest to chest with hands clasped near their hearts. "Thank you."

John suspected the thanks wasn't really for the physical assist. "Of course."

 

.

 

The pair of them were left alone in the house for about fifteen minutes; Sherlock used the time to boot up the two laptops sitting on the dining room table, as well as the one John had brought in his satchel. By the time the front door opened, the genius was fully occupied: standing behind him and peering over his shoulder, John saw his screen crowded with various message boards and overlapping small windows filled with ever-changing codes and numbers; the DI's computer was playing a video of Anna and Greg chatting with a younger man and a little boy, at low volume, while the third laptop waited at the splash page of a well-respected genealogy web portal.

Sherlock lifted his chin at the sound of the door, and paused the video without looking back. "Ah, Anna. If you would assist me by entering some data here..."

"Sorry, I'm not Anna."

They both turned toward the unfamiliar voice. The man wore a black wool overcoat, open to reveal a police ballistics vest over a neat shirt and tie; his white-blond hair was tamed into a flawless part, and his piercing blue eyes were narrowed in an assessing expression. "Charles Garvey, Chicago P.D."

"Oh yes, Detective Garvey," Sherlock said briskly, turning and rising from his chair gracefully to stand before the officer. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, and this is my partner, Doctor John Watson."

John noted that neither man had made a move to shake hands, so he simply nodded politely, clasping hands behind his back. "Detective. Thank you for making time to meet with us."

The man frowned at them both, his posture tense. "I don't know what to make of all this, with persons of interest having private investigators brought in from overseas—"

"Not a _private investigator,_ thank you very much. I am a consulting detective; a unique classification." Now Holmes was quickly taking on that haughty tone which usually presaged a takedown. "And I think you'll find my intellect more than adequate to outpace your department handily."

John took this as a cue to quietly edge past them, toward where Greg and Anna had silently come in behind the policeman and sat together on the loveseat. He perched on the armrest next to them, giving himself a good view to the confrontation.

"Oh yeah? Your buddy had me look you up online. Bunch of hype, if you ask me."

"Shall I prove myself, then? Oh, I do _so_ enjoy this part." Sherlock ran his cool gaze over the other man quickly and critically. "Obviously you expect me to list off facts that you presume I could have found out from Anna last night. As I was given only two definitive facts in regards to you yesterday, those being that you had been in school with Anna and that she apparently found you upsetting, I will leave further mention of her aside...No, what you did last night is much more interesting. Tell me, your date—the short redhead with two cats, one Siamese, one Maine Coon—did she appreciate that you took her out for her favourite Ethiopian cuisine after work, even though you can't abide spicy food? Sadly it doesn't appear she has quite forgiven you yet for ignoring her calls while you were with your family at Christmas; of course, having been raised in a strict household by an overbearing military man, you surely felt you had no choice. You really should get the ulcer looked at, by the way, putting it off a third time will do you no good."

John looked over to Anna, tucked up under Greg's protective arm; her face was splotchy and nose a bit red, but her eyes shone wonderingly, and she was smirking as she watched her old acquaintance react.

"I—my god. No, you definitely didn't get any of that from her. How...?"

"Simple observation of the readily visible evidence. Think about it a while; I'm sure you'll eventually come up with at least a little of it, Detective." Dismissing the conversation with a gesture, Sherlock strode out into the living room, where he sat abruptly on the little ottoman facing the others. "Anna, I must apologise for my bluntness earlier. It was thoughtless of me. I do require your assistance, however, if you feel up to it?"

She smiled shakily and sat up, letting Greg's arm slide down her back. "It's okay. You weren't trying to be hurtful, just honest. I...hadn't really let myself think too hard about what he must have gone through." Drawing and releasing a deep breath, she asked, "What is it you need?"

Standing once more, he offered a chivalrous hand to help her out of her seat— _as if the apology wasn't weird enough, now this?_ John thought in amazement—and led her over to her own laptop, shooting a quelling look at Garvey on their way past. "I need you to enter in as much data as you can remember regarding Andy and his family. I'd like to trace it back and see if that helps uncover anything in regards to the mistaken identity issue."

Detective Garvey, having spent a good thirty seconds staring and gaping like a fish, had finally gathered his wits about him by this point. "Mistaken identity? You're telling me that Andy Hardwick _wasn't_ the person really being threatened by this killer?"

"Killers. There were two henchmen here with Hammond," replied Sherlock matter-of-factly, resting one arm lightly across the back of Anna's chair as she began to work. "And, no. After my examination of his home and belongings, I am certain that Teufel Der Kunst made a mistake in targeting Andy."

"Some mistake, I'd say," Anna muttered, tapping at her keyboard. "Not only is their target already dead, they've managed to attract _your_ attention. Idiots." She threw a brief glance up over her shoulder at him, and he returned it with what John could swear was an almost fond expression. _He looks for all the world like a big brother. Well, I'll be damned._

"Okay, okay," Detective Garvey sighed, obviously resigning himself to the unorthodox situation he'd gotten himself involved in. "You're getting ahead of me, Holmes. How about you bring me up to speed here?"

Sherlock turned and fixed his attention on the blond man once more. "Very well. Shall we begin with my analysis of the scene outdoors? I believe that the cleanup crew Anna scheduled should be arriving in an hour or so; we should finish with all of that as quickly as we can. And I assume you've brought the photographs and findings from the body, as requested..." He moved across the front room to don his coat in one grand, fluid spin; pausing, he eyed the two men still sitting at the window. "Lestrade. Go over the rest of that video, looking for any scenes taken while the two of you stood in the front room, especially within view of the windows; turn up the volume on those sections and see if you can detect any background noises at all. And John, I need you to monitor my screen; if anything changes significantly in the window with the red text and numbers, or if the sidebar starts flashing, or if the trill alert goes off—you'll know if it does—come fetch me." With that, he threw the door open and was out, with the slightly overwhelmed Chicago detective following at his heels.

 

.

 

John stood, stretching, to take a break from his scrutiny of the incomprehensible gibberish filling his monitor. He went to the kitchen to get a bottle of water; the sight of a jar shelved in the refrigerator door caused him to smile in surprised pleasure. "Oh! Anna, mind if I make myself some toast?"

She called over from the table in the next room. "Uh, no, of course not, go ahead—if you have trouble finding anything let me know..."

Greg wandered into the kitchen behind him a few minutes later, pulling out two more bottles from the fridge. "You look pleased, John," he commented.

The doctor returned a little laugh. "Yeah, well, she's got Concord grape jam, I couldn't help myself! Back in Afghanistan, one of my mates was from the States. He got me hooked on it, but it's been ages since I've got any."

"Nice. I'm taking a real shine to peanut butter since I've been here, myself. Wonderful stuff, don't know how I missed trying it earlier."

They heard Anna giggle at the conversation she was overhearing. "Gosh, guys, I can't believe I've been trying to figure out local restaurants to take you to. I had no idea the only thing I had to do to make you both happy was fix you peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!"

The front door opened and closed once more as John emerged from the kitchen. "What took you so long, Sherlock?" he asked around his mouthful of toast. "And where's Garvey?"

"Detective Garvey preferred to keep his files inside his vehicle, so we sat there to review his crime scene photos," he explained, hanging his coat once more. "We'll hear from him again; I've asked him to arrange access to Hammond's gallery for us tomorrow. However, after he took down the physical markers of the two TDK hired men from my descriptions, he was fairly eager to leave."

Anna looked over her shoulder with a tight smile. "Oh, wasn't Chaz enjoying your company, then?" She reached up and accepted the water Greg handed her; he dropped a kiss atop her head as he returned to his seat on her left.

"Hm," Sherlock responded thoughtfully; he approached and settled himself onto the chair John had vacated. "He's got some issues with his idea of professional conflict—and, I believe, he harbours no small amount of guilt based on how abruptly he discarded his friendship with you and Andy. Additionally, I think he seems to be under the impression that the men in your life are quite protective of you, and do not necessarily welcome him with open arms."

Greg snorted, moving a headphone off one ear. "What gave him that idea, d'you think?"

Sherlock looked between the other two men, affecting an overly innocent expression. "It _may_ have been something I said while I studied the photographs. I couldn't possibly think what."

Startled, Anna looked around the table at three faces, all suddenly smiling at each other in various degrees of conspiratorial glee. "Geez, what did I do to deserve you guys...All right, Sherlock, I don't know what exactly you expected me to be searching for, but I did find something that seemed like it might be interesting."

"Do tell," he replied, twitching an eyebrow.

"Well, I went back a few generations in Andy's family, looking through everything this site would give me. I found out that his great-grandfather Robert immigrated from England in 1922, before he got married. Look here..."

Sherlock peered at the document she opened, but his voice remained somewhat disinterested. "A record of sale; Robert Hardwick had part ownership of a small business in Leicester, inherited from his late father, Thomas Andrew Hardwick. Sold his share out to his older brother, remarkably cheaply. The document appears to have been drawn up in a hurry."

"That could be a sign of a family dispute or scandal," John commented, brushing crumbs off his jumper.

Anna replied, "I think it must have been, and I doubt Robert and George Hardwick ever communicated again. Andy loved anything to do with foreign countries, when we were little kids; if anyone in his family had ever mentioned he had relatives in England, it would have been a big deal to him." She clicked over to another tab. "Now, look. This is George's branch of the family."

Sherlock leaned over once more and scanned her screen, muttering quietly as he read. "Daughter, Madeline Jean Hardwick, dies unmarried, aged fifty-four; son, Albert James Hardwick, marries Josephine Grady; their son William Harold Hardwick marries Susan Nesbit, both William and Susan die in December 1979—car accident...ah!"

"You see!" she exclaimed happily.

"Yes! They left a five year old boy to live with his grandparents. Andrew Marcus Hardwick." He suddenly reached out and pulled the computer over to himself, his fingers flying over the keys.

Anna turned toward Greg, obviously pleased by her find. "He's less than three months older than Andy, and they even share the same middle initial—Andy's middle name was Michael. I wonder if this other Andrew knew about his American relatives?"

John watched as the DI smiled fondly at her and started to lean in to say something, but was cut off by a sharp knock at the door.

"Ah, that'll be your power-washing crew, love," Greg said instead, releasing her hand.

 

\-----

 


	16. Anna - December 30 - 9:15 AM

  
**16\. Anna - December 30 - 9:15 AM**   


.

 

A mid-morning snow was falling lightly, dusting a front yard that was blessedly free of evidence. Anna contentedly worked at the embroidery project which had gone neglected for the past ten days, listening to Greg humming to himself as he puttered around in the kitchen. When he emerged with two steaming mugs, she smiled and set her stitching aside.

"Told you it'd be worth it to go out shopping again last night," he said, handing over her tea with a wink and settling into the armchair next to hers. "I can't believe you didn't have a kettle."

"And I apologise for such a grave oversight. I guess Andy wasn't much of a tea drinker! I think there might have been one in the kitchen boxes from my old house, but those are property of the Chicago Police right now." She frowned. "And so's my thread cabinet; I was going to put it over in this corner, by my work area. I won't be able to continue this project much further till I get into the stranded silk I've got stashed."

"Soon enough, love. We'll ask the good detective today about your things; I think we're going to meet him at that art gallery later."

"Sure, okay...I should check in with John, shouldn't I? I don't know when anything's supposed to be happening, and I'm the only driver." She wiggled the phone out of her pocket and tapped out a message.  
 **Good morning! Are we expected right away? *A***

**Don't trouble yourselves just yet. Come pick us up for lunch, say 12:30 or so? That gives me time to find Sherlock and have him get himself presentable. -JW**

**Find Sherlock? Should I even be asking? *A***

**He spent all night on the computer; I sent him down to work in the business centre so I could get some rest. He's still down there as far as I know. -JW**

**All right, 12:30 it is. We'll be out front of the hotel. *A***

Exchanging the phone for her tea, Anna gave a relieved little sigh. "Good, we don't have to meet them for a few hours."

"Good? You're tired of the research centre running in your dining room, then?"

She sipped, then rested the mug on the little corner table, shaking her head slightly. "No, that's fine; I really don't mind having them around at all. I was just hoping we could get a little more time alone this morning."

"Were you, now. Haven't got me out of your system yet?" Greg teased, with a sparkle in his brown eyes.

"Mm, I'm not sure I ever will," she purred, leaning forward in her seat to meet him halfway.

Their tea ended up forgotten.

 

.

 

Anna found a parking space on a side street near the Berryhill Café. The foursome entered together, hunching their shoulders a bit against a sudden gust of wind that followed them through the door. Inside the café, the brightly painted walls were decorated with local artists' eclectic work, and exuberant strands of lights and shiny garland were looped along the ceiling; the enticing smell of a hearty soup combined with the intense aromas of coffee and spices. They chose a table isolated in the rear; Sherlock seated himself in the corner and immediately appeared to tune out the world. Anna studied John casually as he hung his canvas laptop satchel over a chair next to his flatmate, and then followed the others up to the counter. _He doesn't look quite as tired today. I guess kicking Sherlock out of the room for the night helped?_

The three of them ordered soup and sandwiches, chatting idly about the weather as they waited near the counter for their trays. John chose a plate of baklava from the display case in addition to his meal; he carried it back and placed it in front of Sherlock without a word. The tall man took no apparent notice of this, remaining still and focused on the opposite wall of the space as the others ate, his elbows resting on the table and hands steepled under his chin.

"Sherlock, you're being awfully quiet over there," Greg prompted a few minutes later, at a break in the group's casual conversation.

He roused himself slightly at that, twitching the corners of his mouth downward as he answered. "Andrew Marcus Hardwick is an interesting puzzle. I have confirmed that he was commonly known as Drew, and while I'm not certain he is the Drew that TDK is searching for, much of the information I've found so far lends itself towards that possibility."

John blew gently on a spoonful of vegetable soup and raised serious blue eyes to his friend. "All right then, why don't you tell us about him?"

With that, the atmosphere around the little table shifted smoothly toward the business of the mystery at hand. Anna marvelled for a moment at how naturally both Greg and John sharpened their expressions and subtly changed their posture in preparation, before realising that she, herself, had made a similar unconscious movement with them.

Collecting his thoughts, the detective leaned back in his chair and spoke, his gaze moving idly back and forth across the tinsel-decked ceiling as if the story he told were written there. "As you saw detailed on the genealogy site, Drew was sent to be raised by his grandparents upon the death of his parents. His grandmother passed away only three years later, and when his grandfather died in 1988 he was only fourteen. At that point he had no living relations—aside from those overseas, unknown to him—and Drew should have entered foster care, but somehow he managed to slip through the cracks. The only records of Drew after that consist of four ASBOs against him, spread out over three years; after the last one there is no trace of him for three more years. The police records indicate he was running with a delinquent crowd, possibly living on the streets of London for at least some of that time. It's likely he may have perpetrated other, more serious crimes, but escaped notice."

Anna chewed thoughtfully. "This guy sounds like a real mess," she murmured, visualising this unknown cousin roaming the streets and running into trouble with the law at the same time as Andy had been studying French with her and practicing for high school plays.

"Drew resurfaces in Scotland at age nineteen, apparently trying to make a fresh start, and gains employment at a popular restaurant very near the University of Saint Andrews. He takes a small flat near the campus. He seems to thrive there for a few years, but then there are two records of disciplinary actions entered into his employee file in 1995. The first report mentions some disturbance involving a Professor Crannock, and the second does not go into detail; but I expect he encountered some temptation, or befriended someone who lured him back towards his experiences as a petty criminal."

Greg asked, "How'd you get access to these employee records, anyway?"

"I have contacts, Lestrade. I was owed a favour," he replied dismissively.

"Right. Right, of course," the DI huffed, smirking and tossing his head in a wry gesture. "Go on then."

"So. Things seem quiet and stable for one more full year of employment at the eatery, and then he disappears again, quite suddenly, in early 1997. He was not fired; he simply stopped coming to work, and he was found to have moved out of his flat without giving notice."

"What happened?" Anna blurted out, caught up in the story.

"I don't know." He shot her a look that said, _Obviously._ After a moment's thought, he blinked suddenly. "Practically everything in Saint Andrews revolves around the University. There must be some way to figure out who he'd been associating with. I should be able to get into the school's records..." His eyes took on a slightly wild look and his fingers twitched underneath his chin, as if desperate for a keyboard.

"No," John broke in sternly. "You've been staring at computer screens for, what, the last twenty hours? You haven't slept since London, or eaten anything since Sunday night, and I'll be damned if you're going to go on with this without a break. You just—" He cut himself short, snapping his jaw shut and pressing his lips into a thin line.

"What?"

"Nothing." The doctor looked down, staring intently into his coffee.

Sherlock levelled a long, assessing look at his companion, then silently and deliberately picked up one of the four baklava triangles on his plate. He held it between two fingers, eyeing it for a moment as one might a specimen of unknown origin, then popped the sticky honeyed confection into his mouth, chewing slowly and swallowing, watching John the whole time.

Anna found herself with the urge to break the sudden tension. Sharing a glance with Greg, she cleared her throat and asked, "So, do we know anything else yet about why Hammond was killed in front of my house?"

Pale eyes swivelled to her, and then away to a point in the centre of the table. "It seems to be a case of 'two birds with one stone'. A separate order was sent down from above to get rid of Mr Hammond; as the job has already been successfully carried out, there is little talk in the group online regarding the motivation behind it. I may find evidence of his transgression at the gallery, but I can only postulate so far that Hammond either performed inadequately in some important task he was assigned, was indiscreet regarding his activities in a way that threatened the group, or did something to insult or anger the leader."

"And there's just one leader here?" asked John, frowning. "Since you've started looking into TDK we've heard about forgery, blackmail, money laundering, fraud, and murder. It's pretty diverse, isn't it?"

"Diverse, indeed. In fact, I've also found mentions of Teufel Der Kunst in connection with robberies in at least five countries, as well as performance-art style defacement of government property in Spain, and even a rash of poisonings traced to topical agents on a shipment of Pharaoh keychains sold as museum souvenirs in Cairo. TDK has apparently dabbled in an increasing variety of criminal enterprises over the last sixteen years, with little in the way of obvious objective or coordination."

John gave a little snort. "All right, I think I'd like to revise my opinion to 'ridiculously diverse'. And possibly a bit mad."

"I'm still working towards a better understanding, but the variety strikes me more in the sense of someone experimenting with a palette of paints. This 'Devil' is an artist." Sherlock plucked up a second piece of his dessert and popped it into his mouth, with slightly more enthusiasm.

Greg hummed. " 'The Devil will get his due.' So that's just one man they're referring to, not just some metaphorical reference." He ate the last bite of his sandwich as they collectively paused to let the idea sink in. "What's the group up to now, then?"

"I managed to find some chatter last night hidden behind a forum for the Saskatchewan Curling Association; furious activity appears to continue on multiple continents in the search for Drew. The operatives in the Chicagoland area seem to be assuring their superiors that they have scared his confidante, and that they expect him to be drawn out of hiding or reveal his location in some way."

"That means Anna's being _watched._ Still." Greg's left hand moved over to rest on her knee protectively under the table, so quickly she suspected he didn't even realise he'd done it. "Jesus, Sherlock. Couldn't have warned us?"

He gave the DI a sidelong look. "They're making assurances to their superiors, yes, but they are quite obviously idiots."

"It doesn't take much in the way of brains to watch a woman's house and follow her around, or worse," John pointed out, a worried furrow appearing over his brow.

"No, of _course_ not," concurred Sherlock, his voice slightly more agitated, "but she currently has what amounts to a twenty-four hour guard in Lestrade. She is hardly in incapable hands, even without your frequent presence and mine. Besides, if they are watching, they'll surely show themselves sooner or later." He punctuated his statement by gesturing pointedly with the third triangle of baklava, which disappeared in short order.

Anna watched silently as the three men continued to discuss her safety, almost as if she weren't even sitting there with them; a cold knot settled in her stomach. Some small part of her wanted to speak up, to assert herself and show anger; another part was becoming increasingly desperate to make herself useful. A third voice in her head was truly frightened and wanted nothing more than to curl up somewhere and be made safe. But above all, these complicated emotions fighting for dominance were overshadowed by an intense gratitude and love. _Greg, and John, and Sherlock. Oh, I am so very lucky._

 

\-----

 


	17. John - December 30 - 2:00 PM

  
**17\. John - December 30 - 2:00 PM**  


.

 

The walk between Berryhill Café and the Halcyon Gallery was three and a half blocks, coming from the opposite direction of Anna's house. The group made a brief detour back into the side street, finding a sudden relief from the gusting wind in the heavily tree-lined alley. John squinted down the street at the other cars parked nearby—a dark green sedan, and one of those massive SUVs that seemed so inexplicably common here in the States—finding himself distinctly in favour of Anna's little blue Honda. He watched the collar of her red wool peacoat flip insouciantly upward as she deposited two little takeaway bags in the car: blackberry cheesecake for herself and Greg for later, and a second bag she'd bought containing a rich-looking slice of citrus almond pound cake and another portion of baklava, for him and Sherlock.

John spared a brief thought for how nice his evening snack would be, as the group moved on and he fell into step once again at the rear. Sherlock walked ahead of everyone, and Greg kept close at Anna's shoulder, walking on the side between her and the street. Anna had put up a token protest when they'd automatically made the formation around her, but it had been mild. The end of their lunch had been weighted heavily toward talk of the criminals who had stabbed Frank Hammond four times on her front stoop, and then dragged him down the walk and thrown him into her rented truck. _She was awfully pale there, before we walked out. Hope we didn't frighten her too badly._

Normally, in the course of Sherlock's work, John was the continual voice of compassion, ever mindful of tact and delicacy in dealing with victims' families or innocent witnesses; somehow, though, he'd found himself treating Anna's presence in their group differently without meaning to. The three of them—even Greg, who was the most protective of her, and had every reason to be—fell repeatedly into the discussion of gory details, as if they were working alone in the midst of any normal case, before eventually hesitating for the sake of kindness. _Is she reminding us all of working with Molly, is that what it is?_ wondered John, watching her brown hair blow across her face as she turned to say something to the man at her side. _Or maybe it's just that she fits together with Greg so well._ The pair of them walked perfectly in step ahead of him, a complementary set in attitude and appearance, and exuding a sense of easy harmony that John envied a bit. _You'd think they'd been together years, not just a few months, looking at them sometimes. If only it were so easy for me...I had to go and fall in love with that utter madman, though, didn't I? And look where that's got me._

The madman in question stopped the group short on the sidewalk, a few doors down from the gallery. Turning, he dipped his head slightly and spoke in a low tone. "After Detective Garvey arrives to give us access, I'd like you to be prepared to distract him for a few minutes, Anna, when the time is right."

Her eyes widened. "Any particular method of distraction you had in mind?" she asked, incredulously.

"Just,"—he flapped a hand a bit—"some talk about your school days, or something. I'll need time to get files copied from Hammond's computer; I know Garvey won't consider it appropriate as it's only tangentially related to his case, but I must get more information on the TDK power structure, and I'm certain there will be something of use on that hard drive."

She looked willing to help, but doubtful. "Okay, but I don't know if Chaz will let me distract him for long. He seems to take his job very seriously."

"As well he should," huffed Greg, standing straighter and levelling a don't-mess-about-with-the-police look at the younger man.

"Yes, well." Sherlock tilted his head slightly in deference to the DI. "Obviously this whole process would be made entirely above-board, were we in London. Here I have few resources, and few connections, in combination with a rather limited time frame. It is in my best interest to seek out clues leading specifically to the two killers as quickly as possible; however, solving and closing Garvey's case will close off what little access to information I have, and hinder my ability to proceed with my own larger investigation—hence, my desire to quickly accumulate as much raw data as possible, and then sort through it all later." He straightened suddenly, glancing to the shop window next to him and turning around.

Anna leaned over at that moment and whispered in John's ear, "I was wondering if he was ever planning to breathe!"

John shared a grin with her, even as Sherlock stepped forward to meet the lanky blond detective, just then emerging from an unmarked car in front of the gallery door.

 

.

 

Once the building was unlocked and they were allowed inside, Sherlock was off like a shot, prowling around and examining the room. As the rest of them made their way in more slowly, Detective Garvey explained, "I'm returning this key to the gallery's assistant manager tomorrow, since we've already cleared this as a possible scene; nothing was found here that indicates any part of the crime happened here."

"Wrong!" came the immediate shout, from behind a large hanging tapestry dividing the far end of the exhibition space.

Garvey's head snapped around. "What?"

John turned to exchange a look with Greg and Anna, and was sure his own face matched their faintly smug expressions of pride.

"You heard me. Wrong." Sherlock appeared, gesturing imperiously for the detective to follow him and examine what he pointed out. "For one thing, look at these marks here, obviously drag marks from the rubber heels of Hammond's shoes. He was surprised while he sat in his office...followed one or both of the men out into this area...and before being dragged out, he was forcefully subdued here. With, wait—" He leaned closer to a display column. "—yes, with this embroidered urn. See the chipped ridge and small blood spatter at the base? It should match the odd wound noted on Hammond's scalp."

"Um. Okay..." Still looking a bit shocked and out of his depth, Garvey began to fumble in his coat for his notepad and camera.

"You'll want to dust it for fingerprints, of course. Anna, who embroiders an urn anyway?"

She shrugged. "I've seen embroidered rusty shovels. It takes all sorts, Sherlock."

His lips twisted in a look halfway between puzzled and amused, and then he was off again, studying the appointment books and papers at the little reception desk.

As if moving to some unspoken signal, the rest of them split up and moved around the gallery at their own pace, casually studying the mix of antique and contemporary fiber art pieces while Sherlock continued explaining things to the local detective. John paused in front of a mannequin wearing a colourful poncho that appeared to be partially crocheted from VHS tape, and Greg appeared at his side.

"You've been pretty quiet today, John, everything all right?" murmured his friend, startling him from some formless contemplation that may or may not have involved aristocratic cheekbones.

"It's fine, I'm fine. Er." _Great, now I just sound like I'm mooning. Change the subject before he asks._ "You and Anna are getting on well, hey?"

"Yeah, it's great," Greg responded, his voice and eyes immediately softening. "I mean, these circumstances...it's certainly not what I expected our holiday to be, but she's dealing with it all right. I really, really love spending time with her, even with all this."

"It shows...I don't know if I've ever seen you as happy as you've been since you two met." John shared a smile with the other man, and they gazed together across the room at Anna. From their vantage point they could both see her clearly, bending forward at the waist to examine a strange bonnet-like headpiece displayed on a faceless bust with a coiffed wig.

As they watched, she straightened, peered closely at the description tag next to the piece, and leaned in again, a puzzled frown on her face. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Come here and look at this..."

He put down the papers he was shuffling through, made his way to her side and leaned in. "You see a problem with this antique hat?"

"It's apparently called a rigelhaube, or 'latchplate hood'. It has a letter of authentication that dates it very specifically to Germany in 1836. But...look here, at this frayed edge."

John glanced over at Greg, whose eyes were still fixed admiringly on his girlfriend.

Sherlock leaned in to peer where she was pointing. "Cotton sewing thread, with signs of great age...not unusual." He raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"But, it's plied! I count six plies on that thread end sticking out. Coats and Clark was the first to invent six ply machine sewing thread, and they brought it into production in 1850. This has to be a forgery!" Her expression was animated and excited as she spoke, but after she made the declaration she seemed to falter. John could practically see her second-guessing herself.

Raking long fingers slowly back through his curls, Sherlock made a soft sound of realisation. "Oh..." He stood straight with a grin and practically bounded into the little management office at the back of the gallery, calling behind him, "Detective! I wish to examine the victim's computer now, if you please!"

Left suddenly to herself, Anna looked slightly lost; John moved across to where she stood. "I'd take that as a confirmation of your theory, were I you," he commented softly. "How'd you know that, anyway?"

"I burned my finger making myself dinner a couple weeks before Christmas, so I couldn't stitch at all that night, and I got bored," she replied, smiling as Greg moved around behind her and put an arm over her shoulder to peer closely at the spot she'd pointed out. "I got on the computer instead and watched a whole documentary on the history of thread. I know, I'm a weirdo."

"Well. You're my wonderful, amazing weirdo," chuckled the DI, planting a kiss on her cheek. "Here now, let's see if we can't find something useful in that office, shall we John?" he grinned, with a wink and a lilt of his head to the other man.

 

.

 

John stretched and yawned, ruffling his fingers in his hair and adjusting the pillow at the small of his back; another evening's research in the hotel room had dragged on far too late. Sherlock was intently poring over the University's records, leaving John to sift through the files and folders they had copied discreetly onto an external hard drive. _Anna didn't do a bad job of keeping Garvey occupied,_ thought John, recalling the minutes the three Londoners had spent searching through Hammond's disorganized little office. _I think she thought it'd be awkward, but it was probably good for her to talk one-on-one with the guy awhile. He seemed more easy-going with us, too, after that._ He clicked over to the next page of the document he was skimming, and tried to refocus his attention, but found it drifting to the other side of the dimly-lit room again within seconds.

His companion was stretched on his stomach across the opposite bed, his bare feet under the pillows, his own laptop throwing a bluish glow across his alabaster features.

"Any luck?" John asked, around yet another yawn.

"Drew Hardwick had a discipline warning that involved a Professor Crannock, as you recall; he was working at the University as an assistant adjunct professor, in art theory. I had assumed Drew had wronged the professor in some way, and had taken up with a student who was a bad influence. But Crannock may have been much more important!"

"Oh? How so?"

"Arthur Crannock was a disillusioned art post-graduate student, denied advancement in his chosen field. The University of Saint Andrews is highly regarded for the study of art history and theory, but unlike other schools of its caliber, it has an unfortunately poor record as far as graduate prospects." Sherlock frowned slightly as he switched his focus among various windows on his screen. "The last date Drew was seen in Saint Andrews just happens to be the same day that Arthur Crannock was fired from University staff..." As John watched, his shoulders tensed and his head dipped down slightly; the detective was forcefully stifling a yawn of his own.

"That's it, Sherlock, why don't we call it a night? Come on, you really do need sleep at some point soon."

The younger man swivelled his head to blink owlishly back over his shoulder. He opened his mouth, no doubt preparing to dispute the need for sleep, but closed it again upon a searching glance over his friend's face. "Fine," he eventually said.

Momentarily thrown by the lack of a drawn-out battle, John stared back a few seconds too long before nodding and turning his attention to shutting down his computer. _Do I still look that damn tired? Well, I'll take it in this case. That man needs to be dragged kicking and screaming to take care of himself...but if I can make it about taking care of me? Suppose that works, too._

 

.

 

A while later, John lay on his back, gazing blindly up at the ceiling in the darkness. He'd been tired enough that he'd half-expected to drop straight off once the curtains had been drawn and silence had settled into their room. Now, however, his only sensory input was the glowing line of the door, the periodic flash of the smoke detector, and the faintest whisper of his friend's breath a few arm's lengths away; he squeezed his eyes shut and willed his mind to stop racing, but eventually a need to speak pressed against the back of his throat like a physical weight.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

The words congealed into a sudden lump; he swallowed around it. Wetting his lips, he blurted, mundanely, the first thing that came to mind. "You're not asleep yet."

" _Obviously_ not."

"Er."

There was a quiet moment, and then the smooth baritone spoke again. "You surely had something more to say than that?"

"Um. Yes."

This time the silence dragged a good twenty seconds, before John finally muttered, "Damn it."

Sherlock hummed quietly, and allowed another expectant pause to stretch between them.

"Will you, er, that is, I might have..."

"Ah. You expect night terrors?" The reply was soft, and blessedly without hint of judgment.

He let the answer fall quietly at the end of a long, sighing breath. "Yes."

"Is there a particular way in which you feel I could be of help?"

John cleared his throat self-consciously. _Oh god, I can't believe I'm even saying this._ "Er, well, before when you—that seemed to help some actually."

There seemed to be a hint of a smile audible in the answer, when it came. "I can't accomplish that from over here." _Probably amused that I can't string three damn words together, ugh!_ thought John, as he listened to Sherlock continue: "If you would be amenable..."

He shifted uncomfortably beneath his covers. "Look, just,"—he heaved a resigned sigh—"yeah, could you?"

There was a quiet rustling as Sherlock rose, and a near-invisible shadow upon the darkness, felt more than seen, indicated his movement across the room. The slim figure hesitated, then backtracked; more rustling ensued as the cover was pulled from his own bed. Finally, he silently crossed back and lay, carefully and cautiously, at John's right side, arranging his long blanket-wrapped limbs atop the bedclothes.

John's mouth was dry. "I don't know if I'll—"

"It's all right. I won't mind." The deep, quiet voice suddenly seemed so close it felt as if his flatmate were curled up inside his head.

 _Glad he can't see my face, feels like it's on fucking fire..._ John tentatively slid his hand a few inches to the right and met the warmth of the other man's arm; though expected, the contact sent a surprising jolt through him.

"Here." Slender, callused fingers trailed softly down from John's elbow to his wrist, and then Sherlock gently took his hand and twined their fingers lightly together. "Is this all right?"

"Um, y—yes, I think so." He licked his lips and swallowed hard, willing himself to relax and breathe deeply.

"Good. Goodnight John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

 

\-----

 


	18. Anna - December 31 - 9:00 AM

  
**18\. Anna - December 31 - 9:00 AM**  


.

 

The final day of 2014 dawned sunny and frigid: a perfect morning for baking, and letting the oven supplement the heat from the furnace, Anna had decided. Just as she set her batch of blueberry muffins out on the cooling rack, a knock sounded at the door.

"I've got it, love," Greg called from the front of the house; moments later she heard him greeting their friends.

Setting aside her oven mitts, she picked up the mug of coffee she'd left next to the stove, and turned around to greet John on his way into the kitchen.

"Mmm, those smell lovely," he commented with a smile, leaning in for a hug. "Coffee?"

"I just brewed a fresh pot. Or have tea, if you'd rather; I got a new electric kettle the other night, thanks to Greg setting me straight." She tilted her head as she said it, indicating the man now clearly audible in the next room, already debating with Sherlock the best arrangement of power cords on the dining table.

The doctor chuckled warmly, turning away and reaching up to the cabinet for a mug. "Rule One when dating a Brit."

"Dating, heh." Anna twisted her lips in a sort of half-smile, glancing down at the muffins on the counter.

"Problem with the term?" John looked back over his shoulder; his expression was serious but his eyes sparkled.

"Oh...no. No, it's just—" She paused and tried to figure out her off-the-cuff reaction. "I don't know, is 'dating' really the right term for us?" _Can you call it that, when it's to be a few weeks' visit, once or twice a year? Assuming that could continue indefinitely?_

"Well." He poured his coffee, then raised his head and met her eyes with a resigned little shrug. "I'm coming to the opinion that there aren't enough suitable words in the English language to define certain relationships."

They shared a direct, open look for a moment, and Anna understood with a little jolt that he definitely wasn't only speaking about her. She glanced past him toward the dining room, where the other men's talk continued unabated, and murmured, "Box-ticking?"

To his credit, John immediately understood the reference to the private conversation they'd shared back in October, and neither flinched nor blushed as she had half-expected. He licked his lips and replied, just as quietly, "I'm working on it."

In the next moment, Greg bustled in behind them, full of energy. "Love, I moved the power-strip you were using behind the bed. Hope you weren't kidding when you said you didn't mind the tech centre in your dining room..." He paused to eye the fresh muffins with an appreciative sniff and a cheeky grin.

Anna felt her face relaxing into a wide smile in return. "Yes, you can have one if you can pick it up without burning yourself. And yes, that's fine—though I _hope_ you reset my alarm clock?"

He was already eagerly snatching up a muffin, juggling the hot paper between fingertips. "Sherlock's in doing that for you right now...ooh!"

John burst into laughter at the older man's comical reaction to the gooey blueberry napalm oozing onto his finger, and she and Greg followed suit soon after.

 

.

 

Everyone was eventually settled around the dining room table; three mugs of coffee and one of tea rested by four laptop computers. A plate of still-warm muffins shared the centre of the table with a profusion of cables, a few notepads and pens, and a pile of miscellaneous papers.

"So, we're all set up. What's to be done?" Greg cracked his fingers in front of him, eyes alight in anticipation as he gazed across the length of the table at the consulting detective.

Sherlock hummed distractedly, already busily clicking and typing. "In the interest of working most efficiently with a large amount of data, I've taken the liberty of downloading and setting up a network meeting program on these four systems, while you were all socialising in the kitchen. At any rate, if any one of us needs to share what they're looking at with the other screens, you'll find controls to perform those functions near the lower right."

"Oh, that's fun," Anna murmured, clicking where indicated to browse through the list of possible functions. She exchanged an amused glance with Greg, seated at the foot of the table to her right. "So what are we going to be having on our screens?"

"Last night we began to review the files from Hammond's computer; I've separated the bulk of the content by type and copied folders onto your desktops. John was in the midst of going over exhibit documents, orders and contracts; Lestrade, the folders on your computer are mostly bank records, financial statements and employee records; Anna, I've given you all the image files to sort through. I'm logging back onto the message board circuit, to watch for updates on the Chicago grunt-work team, and in the meantime will be continuing my search for Drew Hardwick, and his apparent associate Arthur Crannock."

Greg spoke up. "That sounds fine. But if you're using us for eye-work we should all be on the same page with everything, yeh?"

He nodded tersely, flicking his pale eyes up and then down again. "Ask away."

"I want to know more about all this message board mumbo-jumbo," the DI began. "John says you've been watching all this for weeks, right? Crazy hacker stuff, looks like. Is it really getting you anywhere?"

One elegant hand carded through curls as the detective responded. "I'm getting better all the time at following the pattern of their communiqués. When I first began to dig into the messages that ordered the malpractice on Pattinson, leading to his fatal coma, it was like looking at a totally foreign language. Each time I manage to put myself in position to observe online activity, I learn a bit more about the code system and their power structure."

Anna marvelled at his aura of childlike excitement: the puzzle, above all. "So how does it all work?" she prompted.

"There are a few key players worldwide, all answering to one leader while running separate small, strung-out groups of participants; it appears that whoever set up the TDK online has gone out of his or her way to create a multi-tiered system."

"You've been watching it a lot," John commented. "Has it all been useful?"

Sherlock snorted. "Hardly. Aside from its instructional value in my learning their ciphering, quite a lot of the day-to-day chatter is no more complex or consequential than the bulk of pointless nattering found on Facebook or the like. Only the lower levels of the group involve themselves in frequent communication; I wade through utter drivel on a daily basis, but I feel certain I'm on the verge of moving up a level."

"Okay," Anna murmured, as she scanned over yet another folder full of esoteric images of artwork. "Who's this Crannock guy you mentioned? Is that the guy you said Drew got a warning about at work?"

Sherlock explained what he'd found the previous night in the University's records. "The setbacks Arthur Crannock encountered over the course of his academic career might easily have been surmountable, had he not already had a history of mental illness," he continued. "A series of increasingly embarrassing breakdowns alienated him from the art academia and museum societies; it was this, combined with his tendency to gravitate towards unsavoury people, that ultimately led to his dismissal from the University, on the date Drew Hardwick disappeared. I'm now trying to follow the trail on the assumption that these two men stayed together for some time."

"All right, well, something else I've been curious about since yesterday is the sequence of events at the gallery," John put in. "I get that they wanted to scare Anna, and I know you said killing Hammond was a separate order, so why not kill him at the gallery and then dump him in Anna's rental? Or, why knock him out and drag him, just to get him onto her porch and then drag him some more?"

"A valid question, John. Having seen the evidence of the gallery confrontation, I now believe that the men's mission was not simply to kill Hammond, but also to locate and retrieve an item. They surprised him by coming in as he was working late in the office; when he emerged, they threatened physical harm if he did not give the item over. He was uncooperative, and likely becoming difficult to handle, so one knocked him out with the urn. While Hammond was unconscious the pair searched the office."

Anna tapped a finger on her lips thoughtfully. "How could Chaz and his team miss that the office had been searched? He was so sure there was no crime scene there; I know he's a moron compared to you, Sherlock, but still..."

"They weren't quite as vehement in their search as one might expect from watching ridiculous television crime dramas. They were careful to leave it looking only carelessly messy. However, Hammond was habitually fastidious, as I saw clearly evidenced in the state of the front counter, the storage room and even the broom closet."

"Any idea what they were searching for?" Greg asked, around a bite of muffin.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, pursing his lips as he referenced some internal memory bank. "Something smallish, judging by the search pattern. It could have been any number of things: a document, a credit card, a small book, even a piece of jewellery. I didn't find enough to give me that information."

Greg shifted in his seat. "So, something small. Like, a key maybe?"

"It's a definite possibility." He took a sip of tea as he considered, then resumed his typing. "Yes, if Hammond had been granted access to a meeting area, or someplace where things were stored, then his falling from favour with the 'Devil' would certainly revoke that access."

John glanced from his screen to the man on his left. "That's not a bad idea, Greg. What made you think of a key, as opposed to something else?"

"Well...mainly, the fact that I found a weird key."

Frenetic typing suddenly stilled at the head of the table, and three pairs of wide eyes focused on the DI simultaneously.

"I admit, I kinda forgot about it yesterday evening!" Greg stood and walked out, continuing to explain himself as he retrieved his overcoat from the front room. "But yeah, when the three of us were in there looking around...I was sitting on that ugly little side chair, rummaging through the bottom of that file cabinet, right? And there was something uncomfortable poking me, so I looked, and there was a little slit cut in the side of the cushion." He produced the item in question and handed it over.

Sherlock turned it in his hands. "I'm surprised at you, Lestrade. Whatever happened to your undying devotion to police procedure?" As he brought the brushed bronze-coloured piece of metal up in front of his eyes, Anna finally got a clear look: it resembled no key she'd ever seen. It had a flat, oblong head similar to any normal house key, but instead of a normal toothed key-blade, it continued below into a long, cylindrical shaft with a series of deep, angled notches near the end.

Greg shrugged guiltily, his ears taking on a touch of red. "Right, well sometimes the rules get a little bent, yeh? Look, it was just impulse. It looked like a drill bit or summat, it was interesting, I pocketed it without really thinking about it..."

"Hmm." The detective passed the odd key over to John, who studied it curiously before placing it near the middle of the table. Steepling his fingers beneath his chin, elbows propped on either side of his keyboard, Sherlock lapsed into an impenetrable silence as the other three settled themselves into clicking and scanning over their various documents.

 

.

 

Anna stood, stretching her arms overhead and rolling her neck from side to side. "It's about time for lunch. Chinese all right, guys?" Leaning back over her laptop, she clicked on "share" and sent a PDF menu simultaneously onto John's and Greg's screens.

They both smiled, surprised; within a minute or two they'd each given her their orders, and she stepped sideways around the table, edging behind Greg's chair to escape from her position against the wall. As she crossed toward the front room to fetch her phone, Sherlock raised his head—he had appeared, for the most part, engaged in an intense, silent staring contest with his computer for the last half hour—and stopped her in her tracks with a look.

"Add two eggrolls, and one large order of roast pork lo mein," he said.

John reacted with visible surprise. "Lo mein? Really?"

In response, the man lifted his phone. "Detective Garvey will be joining us shortly. I'm certain he won't object to eating with us, since he's decided to forego his lunch break to come by."

 _I thought it was weird when Sherlock randomly deduced MY food preferences. This? This is definitely weirder._ Shaking her head dazedly, she went to make the call.

 

.

 

John volunteered to join Anna on the short drive to pick up their food, jumping up and moving for his coat before Greg could so much as open his mouth to offer. Once the car had warmed up sufficiently, and the heater fan had been turned down to a more reasonable speed which might allow conversation to be heard, he turned to her and spoke. "I hope you don't think I'm upset with you."

Startled, she glanced at him, then back to the street ahead. "What?"

"For—for what we talked about the other day. Meddling, or what-have-you. Back in London."

She was at a loss for words for a second; he'd obviously been waiting to speak with her alone since that morning, but his voice was slightly hesitant, as if he'd begun to reconsider at the last moment. "I didn't exactly see it as that, at the time. Not 'til afterwards. Thank you, for not being mad."

"I've been thinking—well." He ducked his head sheepishly, and laced his fingers together. "I think I'm beginning to realise I may've misunderstood things a fair bit, over the last few months."

"Ask me anything, John; I'll help if I can. But—"

"But?"

She chewed on her lip before replying. "I haven't gotten a handle on you, this whole time. I'm afraid to answer whatever you're going to ask, because I have _no_ idea what it is you're hoping to hear."

He released a nervous little giggle, tilting his head back against the seat. "God, just look at us both tiptoe. It's like Schrödinger's relationship. Jesus." Dragging in a deep breath, John visibly steadied himself. "All right, yes. I didn't want to think about it for a long time, and I've never said it before...to anyone. But yes, Anna, I'm madly in love with the git. There."

Anna released a breath she hadn't realised she was holding, and a soft smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Oh, good." She pulled into a free space in front of the restaurant, parked and reached into her coat pocket for the cash she'd tucked there. "Pickup number eighty-seven; here."

While she waited for John to reappear with their food, she gazed blithely at passing cars and mulled over what she knew of Sherlock's current feelings. _Hm. Not much, really, since October; but I don't suppose he would have changed his mind?_ An intermittent flow of passing traffic accompanied her thoughts: two SUVs, a dark green sedan, a red Jeep, one of those silly-looking Volvos, a beige minivan, a dark green sedan, a yellow Mini Cooper...and then John was hopping back into his seat with a large, aromatic bag.

"Where were we? Ah yes...you said 'oh, good'."

She returned the smile as she pulled back onto the street. "I did. Now, I'll say right off that Sherlock isn't what you'd call very forthcoming, and we haven't spoken about it since I was in London. But, you had already asked me if he used that word in particular."

"And?"

"And _yes,_ John, that's exactly the word he said. I prompted him to talk, granted, but I didn't say it first." She made an inward face at herself for awkwardly avoiding the word 'love'. _More dancing around? No, he knows exactly what I mean. And...it feels right to leave it out; it's Sherlock's word to say, not mine._

John was quiet then; when she glanced his way, his eyes were wide and a bit glazed. He stared straight ahead and clutched the bag of food stiffly in his lap.

"Do you want to ask me anything else?" she prompted, softly. "We're almost home."

"I'm not really sure what else to ask." His response was slow and thoughtful. "I suppose I just have to bite the bullet and sit down with him..."

"And finally open Schrödinger's relationship box?" she teased gently.

He laughed shakily. "Or who knows, maybe even tick it."

 

\-----

 


	19. John - December 31 - 1:30 PM

  
**19\. John - December 31 - 1:30 PM**   


.

 

John's head was spinning as Anna parked her car. His hands shook slightly when he unbuckled his seatbelt. He let her walk ahead of him to the house, and followed at a measured pace to gain a little time for some quick breathing exercises. _In. Out. Don't look so shellshocked. Come on, Watson, you can do this._ He smoothed his face, with effort, and deliberately loosened his shoulders; when Anna turned to hold open her front door for him, she showed no sign that she saw anything wrong with his pleasant expression.

Upon his walking in, however, the manufactured calm he'd achieved very nearly slipped within the first seconds: Sherlock was right _there,_ standing feet away from the door with the Chicago detective, who must have preceded them by just a minute or two. He was turned in profile to John, expounding upon some detail of the gallery evidence, and just the sight of those glossy curls and ridiculous cheekbones sent John's stomach straight into his feet.

"Coming through!" he blustered, ducking his head and pushing past to hand the bag of food over, and neatly avoiding eye contact in the process. For all that he was practically vibrating with previously repressed hope in that moment, he wasn't ready to meet those eyes.

 

.

 

Unfortunately, the dining table had been rendered completely unsuitable for their meal. The group ended up arranged in the half-empty living room; Detective Garvey, today wearing a nicely tailored charcoal gray suit, sat on the loveseat with Anna, while John and Greg sat cross-legged on the floor in front of them, and they all ate awkwardly from their laps. Sherlock simply plucked up his eggrolls and nibbled at one in front of his computer, sparing himself the light and mostly meaningless chat, which was just as well. The footstool served as a makeshift coffee table, and Garvey eventually set his takeaway container atop it.

"Thanks for getting lunch, Anna," he repeated, wiping his mouth. "I didn't expect that."

"Don't thank _me,_ Cha—Charles, sorry—your order was all Sherlock," she replied.

He tossed his head, rolling his eyes. "Oh go ahead, just call me Chaz."

"Aww, really?" She set her own box down and smiled over at him. "I missed you, Chaz."

"I missed you too, Annie."

Sherlock cleared his throat pointedly from the doorway before a reconciliatory hug could be considered. "Touching, I'm sure. Could we perhaps reach the point of this visit, before the good detective needs to leave to make his court testimony?"

The blond looked up, frowning slightly, then leaned down to retrieve the zippered neoprene sleeve he'd set near his feet. "Yes, of course. We made an arrest last night on the murder, from the prints on that urn you pointed out."

As Garvey moved into the dining room, pulling out his own laptop to add to the profusion of technology already on the table, John stood and gathered things to take into the kitchen. The familiar deep rumble of Sherlock's voice in response to the man followed him in; he crossed the room with his hands full, not bothering with the light switch. For a moment he stood at the sink, private in only the dim gray glow filtered through the pebbled glass of the back door, and allowed himself the luxury of hearing without listening, letting the velvet sound slide over him. Then the sharp, formal voice of Detective Garvey broke the spell, and he swallowed, coming back to awareness of what they were saying.

"His name is Lenny Paulos, age thirty-three. You were right, he was tall—the guy is six foot four."

"Of course I was right. For the urn to have been brought down at that angle, he had to be at least five inches taller than Hammond."

There was a pause, then other, smaller voices filtered into the kitchen: Garvey was apparently playing a video recorded during the interrogation.

John quietly returned to the dining room, to find everyone gathered behind Sherlock and watching over his shoulder. The hesitant, phlegmatic voice of the interviewee drew him around to see the screen himself, and Anna shifted closer to Greg to give him room next to them.

The olive-skinned man on the screen was clearly of Greek genetics to match his surname; he sported a large nose and heavy brow under unkempt dark hair. He nervously tugged at the neckline of his plain T-shirt and spoke haltingly, with a strange profusion of sucking noises and near-glottal stops scattered among his words.

Tilting his head to one side, Sherlock spoke over whatever question the recorded Garvey was asking. "What do you make of his speech, John?"

Startled into greater concentration, the doctor listened a moment more. "Not a problem with language. I'd say he suffers a mild deformity of the soft palate, causing impediment."

"Quite right," his partner agreed softly, and John felt a tiny tremor in his chest.

Another minute or so into the questioning, Detective Garvey cleared his throat. "This is the part where he refers to your group's name," he pointed out.

Recorded-Garvey pressed: " _Why_ did you kill Frank Hammond?"

"It's what d-Art wanted! Dunno why!"

Sherlock twisted around and narrowed his eyes at the man, pursing his lips silently.

As was frequent in John's experience for any common person on the receiving end of such a Holmes look, Garvey immediately began casting around to explain himself. "They wrote 'The Devil' before, so why not 'The Art'? It made sense. And he doesn't deny involvement with the group when I ask him about it, here in a minute."

"That consonant wasn't an article, _obviously._ It was plainly an artifact of his speech problem. No..." He moderated his don't-be-such-an-idiot look into a facial expression more indicative of thought. Turning back to the computer, he clicked back to replay the answer, then paused. When he spoke again, his words quickly accelerated into rapid-fire, hands flicking back and forth. "No. He's referring specifically to the man giving the orders; it must be Art, as in Arthur Crannock! But _this_ man is a low value operative, doing violent grunt-work, hasn't got the tattoo so he's not considered an artist, physical indicators show he isn't paid all that spectacularly, hasn't even been involved with TDK more than a few years. How would he have the opportunity to get orders on a first-name basis?"

Greg made a soft noise. "Maybe it's local." John glanced over to see that he had pulled Anna into a close embrace from behind, and was speaking with his mouth half-muffled in her hair. They were both intent on the video, their faces serious but not upset; it seemed they'd just causally deepened their contact, possibly without really noticing.

From where he stood, almost directly behind his flatmate, John could see the slight tensing of Sherlock's shoulders and neck, as Greg's mild comment sparked some new train of thought. John's fingers twitched with a desire to touch the soft dark hair, finger the pulse behind his sculpted jaw, stand behind Sherlock with the sort of comfortable closeness that Greg was enjoying. He stifled a bitter smile at the thought of daring to interrupt The Work with such a distraction as base physicality and sentiment— _I can practically hear him sniping about it. Of course, I can hear him declaiming on his utter detachment from love as a concept, too. What the hell do I know anymore?_ Suddenly he wanted nothing more than for the afternoon to be over. _I've got to figure out what to say, when I finally get him alone to talk._

"If the orders are local..." The slow murmur suddenly sparked into a flurry of activity; Sherlock pulled his own laptop back to centre and began closing tabs and programs. "Yes, _yes,_ it's all beginning to make sense!"

"What makes sense?" This question came from the detective, who wore a look of vague consternation as he shut down the video Sherlock had completely ceased watching.

"I need to get to the Art Institute; I'll need a few hours in their research library before they close for the day. But I'd rather the rest of you continue searching these files, there may yet be something of use. Detective Garvey, if you would be so kind as to drop me off on your way to the Daley Center; I'll take a taxi back to the hotel once I'm done."

 

.

 

John finished preparing two cups of unsurprisingly substandard hotel tea, carrying the small, dense mugs across to the window. After Sherlock had left with Garvey, the computer work had continued until nearly four thirty; then Anna had insisted on taking him and Greg out to browse a few neighbourhood shops and galleries, and then to Giordano's for dinner. John wasn't sure whether the heaviness he now felt in his gut was to be blamed on deep-dish pizza—delicious, but rather overwhelming—or on the three beers he'd drunk while simultaneously keeping up conversation with his friends and pondering over what to say to the man now across from him. They had lingered over their meal for a long time; he hadn't been returned to the hotel until nine thirty, and now it was past eleven.

With a little humming sigh, he offered the pitiful mug of tea. It was ignored for a moment, and then Sherlock stretched out a hand for it, raising his head from his apparent contemplation of the carpet.

"You're back." Pale, serious eyes focused on him slowly, as if resurfacing from somewhere deep and far away.

"I've been back over an hour and a half, Sherlock. I was talking to you earlier, and everything. You even answered me. You really didn't notice?"

"I suppose not."

"Glad I still manage to make such an impression on you," he chuckled wearily, settling down into the second chair. The only light still on in the room was the little one over the sideboard with the beverage accoutrements; the curtains were open, and his eyes traced the faint light from both sides over the planes of his best friend's face, gold and gray.

They stared silently at each other a long minute. Just as John steeled himself to finally speak, Sherlock did instead. "You do."

"What?"

"Make an impression on me."

"All right..." John raised an eyebrow, slightly wary.

"In fact you are singular, John, and I'm afraid I don't tell you enough. I—" He sat forward slightly, and cast his eyes to the side with a faintly desperate expression. "You need to know, it's all right."

"What's all right?"

"What I told you, at the Palace. It—it doesn't have to change anything. I understand it may have been interpreted as an ultimatum of sorts, and that was not my intent. I was impulsive; it was a rash, impetuous declaration brought on by extenuating—"

John interrupted, his voice gentle. "Stop. Sherlock, stop." Was he imagining spots of colour in those pale cheeks? Too dim to tell for certain.

Sherlock finally met his eyes once more. Full lips parted over words held in check as he waited for John to speak.

"I'm sorry I waited so long to talk to you. It was awful of me to let you hang like that." He saw the immediate shift in his friend's eyes, the conclusion made and flash of disappointment so quickly concealed, and his heart tugged painfully as he rushed to continue. "What I mean to say is, I'm glad you told me. So glad. Er." He swallowed hard, feeling his own cheeks heating. _Bloody hell, why don't I make this a little harder on myself?_

"John..."

"Wait, here, look. I got you something. Just one second." Standing abruptly, he moved to retrieve the little package from the mineral and gem specialty shop Anna had dragged him and Greg into that afternoon. As he did so, he gave himself a firm mental shake. _You are NOT going to screw this up, damn it. You deserve this!_

His companion opened his hands to receive the wrapped box, looking down at it and back up with a quizzical expression.

"Call it a second Christmas gift, if you like," John said. He sat down again at the edge of his seat, so that their knees nearly touched, and took a sip of the tea; it really was awful, and he abandoned it to the table.

"The new graduated beaker set you bought me was quite satisfactory."

"Yes, of course, but this is better. This is what I didn't know I was looking for. When I saw it today, I knew it was exactly right. Open it, would you?"

Neither man bothered with the fact that the light was low; there was just enough to see the soft play of golden glow through a chunk of natural amber, about the size of a small child's fist, as Sherlock carefully unwrapped the layers of tissue. The paperweight was carved into a perfectly detailed skull, and as he held it to the light a shadow was visible deep within the centre of the cranium: a bee, trapped and preserved in time.

John bit his lip a little as Sherlock silently and reverently caressed the skull, tracing the ridges of eye sockets and jawbone with a delicate fingertip. "What do you think?"

"It's...magnificent, John."

" _You're_ magnificent." Silvery eyes snapped back up to him in surprise as he pushed on. "I know I've been having trouble finding words. I think I've figured out why."

"Really?"

"It's because words never seem to be enough. I'm no poet, I can't create a masterpiece that does justice to what I feel. I'm not even sure I could explain it if I tried. But maybe, maybe I don't need to talk." He licked his lips and spoke over the blood suddenly rushing in his ears. "What if I just say—"

"Yes?"

"Deduce this?" With that, he didn't allow himself another moment for hesitation; leaning forward, he pressed into a kiss.

For a few seconds the other man was frozen still, and there was just enough time for a flash of ice through John's veins— _oh god, what if I was wrong, what if Anna was wrong_ —and then there was movement, slow and tentative, and their lips were brushing together with an exquisite delicacy.

Time seemed to stretch and warp around them; at some point Sherlock slipped an arm out to the side and placed the amber carving on the table, and John brought one shaking hand up to rest whisper-light against his cheek. _I'm really doing this,_ he thought wonderingly. _Not a dream._ He lost himself in the slow, breathless glide, finally, _finally_ exploring those lush, expressive lips he'd spent so many moments watching.

After a time, Sherlock pulled back a bit and broke the gentle contact. Wide-eyed and panting slightly, he had to make two attempts to form words: "That. That was."

"Have I thrown the mighty mind off the rails, then?" John murmured hoarsely, straightening back up in his chair.

He blinked hard a few times and swallowed before answering. "A bit more...input than I am accustomed to. Yes."

"It's all right though?"

In response, Sherlock reached forward and took a hand gently between both of his. He canted his head downward and turned John's hand as if examining it for clues, lightly dragging a long index finger across the knuckles, across the palm; then in one fluid motion he flipped it upward, intertwining their fingers.

At the same moment, a spark of light caught John's eye from the window; turning his head, he saw fireworks beginning to blossom in the sky over Lake Michigan. He looked back with a smile, watching the flashes reflect in Sherlock's beautiful eyes, red and green and gold and still fixed immovably on him.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock."

 

\-----

 


	20. Anna - January 1 2015 - 4:00 AM

  
**20\. Anna - January 1 2015 - 4:00 AM**  


.

 

Something caused Anna to startle awake, with an awful momentary falling sensation; gasping slightly, eyes wide, she stared across the dark bedroom and tried to figure out what had disturbed her.

Moments later, it came again: a strangely muffled noise which she now recognised as her text alert. Confused, she reached under her pillows and found that her phone had been knocked off the nightstand during their very enthusiastic celebration of the New Year, and that she'd been sleeping with it under her head ever since without noticing. She looked towards the other side of the bed, but Greg hadn't stirred at all. _Note to self: if you want Greg to sleep like the dead, get him drunk on champagne..._ Squinting and covering the screen partially with one hand, in hopes of letting him remain asleep, she unlocked the phone to see the two text messages she'd received.

**Come let me in? -SH**

**Regrettably, I left my lock pick set in London. -SH**

Anna gaped at her phone for a second, then silently threw off her blankets and stood, using the light of the screen to navigate through quickly dressing herself in a sleep tee, sweatpants, slippers and bathrobe. Glancing over to confirm that Greg still hadn't woken as she slipped the bedroom door shut behind her, she padded up to the front of the house and unlocked the door.

"What the _hell,_ Sherlock?" she whispered. "It's four in the morning!"

"I know it is," he replied, breezing past her into the darkened front room, as if it were a remotely normal time of day to be visiting people.

Anna closed the door, shivering a little in the cold current of air he'd pulled along with him. "Shush! I don't want you waking Greg, too!"

He sniffed and moderated his tone to a smooth baritone murmur. "Fine. I didn't come to speak with Lestrade, anyway."

Flipping a nearby three-way lamp on to its dimmest setting, she peered up at the detective; he was making no move to shed his overcoat, and his face was bright red from the cold. "Did you _walk_ here?"

"Yes," he said, tossing his head slightly. "It only took about an hour. I needed to process."

"Process—? Okay. Okay, whatever, here I am. Let's go make some tea," she breathed around a yawn, leading him to the kitchen.

 

.

 

Eventually, Sherlock warmed up enough to remove his coat and scarf, and Anna settled with him at the dining room table. They each cradled a steaming mug between their palms. _For all that he implied he came to talk to me, he certainly is being quiet,_ she worried. _He's just letting me lead him around and take care of him. I'm pretty sure that's not normal._ Out loud, she murmured, "What happened?"

His handsome face twisted into a jarring configuration somewhere between pain, disgust and embarrassment, and he stared fixedly into his tea. "He _kissed_ me."

"All right, that is _not_ the facial expression one generally uses for that sentence. Just so you're aware, for future reference." Narrowing her eyes, she tilted her head to one side. "I thought that would be a good thing?"

"It is! It's—" Releasing the mug, he planted elbows on the table and threaded both hands tightly into his hair, as if trying to keep brains from spilling out. "It's incredible, it's unprecedented, it's _too much,_ " he hissed. "And it's your fault!"

"Whoa! MY fault?"

"It was your insistence that brought me to confess my feelings," he muttered harshly. "If I hadn't, I wouldn't have to deal with this—"

"This _what?_ "

There was no reply. Sherlock glared angrily at her table.

Anna fought with herself for a moment to let the comment slide— _he's just feeling threatened, he wants distance_ —but in her fatigued state, her temper won out. She set her own tea aside with a thump and leaned forward, hands braced on the table, getting right up into his personal space. "No. No, Sherlock, I don't buy it," she whispered sharply. "You've tried this on me before, I'll bet you've done it to Greg and John hundreds of times. But you know what? I'm not gonna take it. I refuse to back off just because you lash out! You got _yourself_ into this; my part in it was minor at best. And you can't tell me that you didn't want John to return your sentiment—I'm not _that_ much of an idiot."

The detective had stilled completely as she berated him; afterward, he dragged his hands slowly down his face, now distant and solemn, and returned to clutching his mug.

She leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over the fuzzy blue lapels of her robe. When she spoke again, it was in a mild tone with none of the sting of before. "Look, if you walked all this way in the freezing cold, in the middle of the night, just to blame me for attempting to be a friend to you both, then you can just walk your ass straight back to the hotel."

An infinitesimal nod confirmed that her point had hit home.

"So. I'll ask again. What was the problem?"

After another moment of stillness, he let out a breath. "This...overwhelming input. External, and internal."

"Ah." A thought occurred to her, causing her eyes to widen. "Please tell me you didn't react with a facial expression like what you gave me just then, when he actually did it?"

Sherlock looked up, blankly staring through her for a moment as he accessed his memories before focusing on her face. "I don't think so."

"You don't think so? Did you black out immediately or something?"

He gave her an insulted look and took a sip of his tea, but didn't answer; she took that to mean, _pretty much._

She pursed her lips, then sipped at her own drink while she considered the best way to help. Eventually she set her mug down and carefully laid her palms flat on the table. "All right. I don't want to make you uncomfortable...but I think it might be helpful for you to tell me what you can about how it happened, and what you were thinking. If there's some specific point that caused a problem for you, maybe we can figure it out. Okay?"

A puff of air escaped his lips. "Therapy."

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, Sherlock," she told him, with a little smile. "I admit, I don't know what I'm doing; it's not therapy, more like bumbling around in the dark! But I promise you, unless you _ask_ me to help by specifically saying something to John, everything we're talking about now will stay between us." At his raised eyebrow, she nodded. "Not even Greg."

Apparently satisfied at that, he ducked his chin towards his chest and closed his eyes for a long moment before beginning to speak hesitantly and softly. "I _knew_ something was about to happen. Over the course of the day there were numerous indicators that John was distracted and upset, especially after he spoke alone with you,"—Anna raised an eyebrow but silently allowed him to continue—"and I was certain that he was trying to come to terms with the previous night's events."

At this, she couldn't help but break in. "What events were those? If I may ask."

"Nothing intended in a romantic fashion. I had assisted him somewhat during our transatlantic flight, in regards to his recurring nightmares, and he requested I perform a similar service last night." Before she could express her confusion, he explained. "He slept holding my hand, nothing more."

 _Whoa. That gives a whole new spin to what John said to me in the kitchen..._ Anna cleared her throat and tried to keep her mind on track. "So you knew he was going to talk to you about it."

"After I returned from the Art Institute, you and Lestrade still had him out shopping; I spent the time in deep contemplation and analysis. I became utterly convinced that he did not wish, after all, to be romantically involved; it was clear enough that he'd considered the problem many times in the past weeks, and he was surely trying to find a way to 'let me down easy', as it were, so that I wouldn't read too much into last night's physical contact. He has _always_ identified himself as straight, to the point of comical insistence at times, and it was nearly ludicrous to assume that my rash declaration should change such a basic tenet of his self-construct..."

Sherlock was on a roll now, his soft murmur picking up speed, his eyes closing to tune out visual distraction as he replayed his internal dialogue out loud. Anna clutched the cooling ceramic between her hands as she listened, with a bittersweet sense of wonderment at being allowed this rare glimpse.

"I was unable to entertain the notion any longer that John would truly reciprocate my feelings. I determined, therefore, that it was _imperative_ I assure him that our platonic friendship, as it is and ever has been, is more important to me than base sentiment! As I was considering how to make this clear to him, I suddenly realised he was speaking to me and had apparently returned some time earlier." A slight grimace passed over his face. "He offered me cheap hotel tea, knowing it would be all but undrinkable; he had a cup for himself as well, even though it was late and he'd been drinking—three pints, in my estimation—therefore the tea was purely out of compensatory habit; he was _obviously_ preparing for something he knew might be upsetting or unpleasant for one or both of us, and was providing the beverage as a gesture of comfort."

He fell briefly silent at this point, and Anna could practically see on his face the approaching moment in his memories where reality ceased to conform to his logical constructs.

"This, of course, was all the confirmation I required of my theory, and so I began to tell him that my messages didn't matter—but he interrupted me; and then he gave me a gift..." Sherlock's eyes popped open and shifted to her. "You were with him when he bought it."

She nodded, smiling gently. "I was, and I saw his face when he noticed it in the display case. Go on, Sherlock."

He ran fingers through his curls as he resumed speaking. "I told him it was magnificent. And then he told me _I_ was magnificent, and then...then..."

Anna waited, barely breathing; the pale, expressive eyes had fluttered closed once more, and his lips parted slightly as he revisited the memory. _Looks like John is probably an amazing kisser, not that I'm surprised. Good god,_ she thought, blushing slightly at even vaguely imagining the scene.

When Sherlock came back to himself, he was frowning deeply, and his gaze moved restlessly around the room. "We parted at almost exactly midnight; there were fireworks off Navy Pier. It might have been twenty minutes? Thirty?" He let out a sudden, strangled noise of frustration loud enough to make her jump a little. "I _lost time,_ there's a blank _space_ in my head under all of that— _sensation_ —"

"Sshhh! Okay. I get it."

He slumped back into his seat, looking lost and defeated in a way she never would have expected to see; it broke her heart, just a little.

Anna took a moment to rub fingers into her gritty eyes, and decided on a matter-of-fact, businesslike tone to try and bring Sherlock back to the present. "So, data overload. But the activity wasn't entirely unpleasant for you, obviously, or you wouldn't have let it go on nearly that long. Do you think your sensitivity was made worse by the fact you didn't know the kiss was coming?"

"...Possibly," he eventually murmured, tilting his head towards the ceiling and steepling his hands beneath his chin.

 _Ah, there's the pose. Finally, he's coming back around, thank goodness._ "All right, so one of the first things you need to talk about with John is warnings, timing, that sort of thing. You should agree with him on some sort of signal you can use, whenever you're feeling overwhelmed. I'm sure he'll be fine with taking it slow, as long as you're honest with him about your needs."

"But—this is abnormal, yes?"

She snorted softly. "Since when is anything about you normal, Sherlock? And since _when_ has John not loved you for _exactly_ who you are?" Seeing the sea change that came over his expression at that, her gentle smile spread wide across her face. "Yes, Sherlock. He loves you, if he hasn't made that clear yet. I believe the phrase he used yesterday was 'madly in love with the git,' in fact. I think he won't mind my breaking his confidence, at this point, since I very slightly broke yours from October to put him out of his misery..."

For the first time in their nearly four months' acquaintance, Sherlock broke into a slow, dazzling smile meant just for her. "Anna. You...are a gem." He sprang to his feet while she was still reeling from that incredible moment, pulling his coat and scarf from the back of the chair with a dramatic flourish.

"Glad to be of help. You're ready to go then? I'll have to get dressed—"

"Don't be absurd. You've only had about three hours' rest, after consuming at least a third of a bottle of champagne. I'm more than capable of taking the same route back to the hotel. Before I left I promised John I'd bring him something for breakfast,"—he glanced up at the wall clock, which read six thirty—"and I'll have plenty of time along the way to think on your advice."

She followed him back to the front door, yawning; now that he'd mentioned her lack of rest, she suddenly felt it. "Okay. Text me if you need anything at all, I'll keep my phone nearby."

He hesitated, halfway out the door with one glove pulled on, and half-turned back; Anna was mildly startled when he reached back with his bare hand and lightly touched hers where it rested on the doorknob. "Thank you," he murmured, and then strode briskly away.

 

.

 

It was nearly noon, and Anna hummed happily to herself, alone in her bedroom as she finished getting dressed. True to her word, she hadn't mentioned her early visitor to Greg, who had slept like a log straight through it all; if he'd noticed her reluctance to leave the bed when he'd finally stirred, he likely thought that his presence was the reason. _And he made no complaint about giving me further excuse to stay there, did he?_ she thought, grinning wickedly at her reflection.

"Anna, sweet, come and see, you won't believe this!"

Leaning in toward the bedroom mirror to fasten her second earring hurriedly, she called over her shoulder. "Just a sec! What is it?"

"You've got a special delivery!" was Greg's enigmatic response, over the sudden sound of unfamiliar voices at the front of the house.

Perplexed, Anna made her way up the hall, straightening her top and composing herself as she went— _I may be the best-satisfied girl on the block right now, but no need to advertise the fact!_ —to find two strange men carrying her sofa in at the front door.

Greg appeared behind them as they finished manoeuvring through, and Chaz Garvey followed him in; they both bore boxes and wide smiles. All three newcomers wore jeans and weekend-style coats, and one wore a knit cap featuring the White Sox logo.

"This is great! Chaz, how are you getting these guys to do this on a holiday?"

He laughed, tossing a wayward piece of pale hair back with a flip of his head. "Billy and Ramon owed me one after a poker night a few weeks back, and we all happened to have an off shift this afternoon. I thought you might appreciate not having to drive the truck off our lot yourself; since the rental paperwork was officially transferred to CPD, I can return it for you too if I just have you sign for your belongings."

Beaming, she caught her old friend up in an impulsive hug the moment he set down the box of books. "Oh, Chaz, thank you so much! It's so thoughtful of you. You know I would've had no problem going to get it, of course, right?"

"I know, but you've got guests to deal with this week," he said, with a smiling glance over at Greg. "And I nearly got lo mein all over your carpet yesterday, so I thought I should probably let you finally have your coffee table."

Introductions were made, and Anna set a pot of coffee to brew for everyone before throwing on her red wool coat and coming out to help. The smiling paramedic and burly traffic cop were less inclined to clowning around than her brothers and niece had been; within thirty minutes, everything she'd brought up from Columbus was in the house.

Afterwards, everyone enjoyed a cup of coffee before Ramon left with Billy to ride home. Chaz remained seated with Greg and Anna in her living room, now much more inviting with its full complement of furniture, and they chatted easily together for a while. True to his attire and the lack of styling products controlling his pale hair, Chaz was most definitely in "off-duty" mode. He effortlessly convinced Greg to tell a few amusing stories about the trials and tribulations of working with Sherlock Holmes.

Anna leaned back on her sofa with a laugh as Greg finished a rollicking tale that ended with Sherlock in the Thames; she smiled warmly to herself thinking of her mad, amazing friends. _What a wonderful way to start a new year._

 

\-----

 


	21. John - January 1 - 8:15 AM

  
**21\. John - January 1 - 8:15 AM**  


.

 

The distinctive aromas of sausage and coffee roused John pleasantly from sleep; he raised his head and opened his eyes foggily. The walls of the room appeared to ripple and pulse, as the silhouette of his companion's flowing overcoat created a moving break in the gray light seeping underneath heavy drapes. Sherlock was stepping back and forth in front of the little table, busily unpacking containers and cups from rustling bags.

"Morning," John said, propping himself up on his elbows. "You really did, didn't you?"

"Hm?"

"You brought breakfast."

Sherlock turned from the table, fixing a look on him that was invisible in the dimness. "I told you I would."

"I guess I expected just a scone from the lobby or something," he shrugged, yawning. "You didn't say all that much last night, before you rushed out."

"Yes, well." The noncommittal words were telling in their brevity.

John let one corner of his mouth rise a bit. "Get a lot of work done while I slept, did you?"

Belstaff and scarf came off and were tossed onto the second bed, but there was no response.

"Because, I noticed you left both laptops here." He was smiling fully now, as he sat up the rest of the way and threw covers off his legs.

Sherlock turned back to the table, affecting a nonchalant tone. "Oh, did I?"

He couldn't resist the cheerful laugh that bubbled out of him as he padded over to see the spread: scrambled eggs, sausage, toast and a large coffee. "That you did."

Turning his head, he studied the man standing next to him. Sherlock's hair was severely wind-mussed; yesterday's clothes were rumpled, and his wind-reddened face was fixed in an oddly tense neutrality. John noted the way he held himself stiffly upright, facing the window rather than his companion.

Letting his teasing smile fade a bit, he reached over and laid two fingertips on his friend's forearm. "All right?"

Sherlock's head turned and tilted to study the small point of contact, and some of the tension seemed to leave his shoulders. "Yes, of course," he responded quietly.

"Good. Let me just take care of a pressing matter, and I'll be back to dig in," he chuckled, retreating to the bathroom.

 

.

 

By the time John returned, Sherlock seemed to be all business once more; a laptop was out on his side of the table, and he was clicking away with the little travel-size mouse attachment that always seemed so comical in his large, graceful hand. He paused as John seated himself, raising his eyes—they had a lovely greenish cast to them this morning, in the light from the curtains that were now partially open—and clearing his throat softly. "It was a fair walk back from the diner, I hope it hasn't gone too cold."

"Looks fine, it's still steaming a bit. Thanks." As John picked up the flimsy plastic fork, he felt suddenly self-conscious of his worn, faded T-shirt, his ugly plaid flannel bottoms, and the lick of hair that would never stay down 'til after he'd showered. He dismissed this feeling immediately as ridiculous. _He's seen me like this hundreds of times!_ he thought, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

 _Yes, hundreds of times that weren't the morning after we snogged..._ The memory came back to him in full force, and he choked just slightly; at the other man's raised eyebrow he managed only, "Needs salt."

"Ah."

John gradually found himself grinning again, helpless to control it, as he ate and watched his companion work. Maybe it was odd that neither of them had mentioned it yet this morning. But in these quiet moments, he could _feel_ an undeniable difference: the lack of something that had previously sat like an iron band around his heart, combined with a fluttering, nervous energy that spun up from his gut and fizzed periodically at the back of his brain, left him unaccountably lighter. _I wonder if he feels it too?_

As if hearing his thoughts, Sherlock flicked his gaze up from his screen. "You're staring at me. And you look ridiculous, smiling like that with a sausage hanging out of your mouth." His lips quirked upwards very slightly as he said it, though.

"Sorry." _Not sorry._ Struck with a mischievous urge, he waited until Sherlock glanced at him again, then deliberately waggled the partially-eaten breakfast meat between his lips like a cartoonish cigar.

This finally cracked his friend's stoicism. "John!"

Snorting with laughter, he ate the offending item. "All right, I'll stop!" With effort, he reined his ebullience in a bit, and ate silently for a few more minutes. He couldn't stop looking, though, and when he was frequently rewarded by a brief moment of eye contact, that little fizzing happiness flared up each time.

 

.

 

Eventually John decided to give in and turn his focus to the work at hand, to start a serious conversation. _Sherlock wasn't thinking on the case last night at all, I don't think; it makes sense he's keen to focus now._ "So. Any more progress? You sent quite a few enigmatic texts from the research library."

"I'm working on the theory that Arthur Crannock actually is, in fact, the mastermind of Teufel der Kunst, and that he may be maintaining a current headquarters here in Chicago," replied his companion.

He nodded thoughtfully, sipping his coffee. "Well, that would make sense, what with that key and all."

"The group started small. Drew appears to have been Crannock's first sycophant, and his talent with financial manipulation may have been instrumental in setting up what would later become their means of sustainability. I expect that the two men later coordinated TDK's activities from separate locations. That's purely conjecture, though, at this point; Crannock's trail on public records goes cold just like Drew's, within two months after leaving Saint Andrews."

The doctor found himself amazed anew at his friend's incredible ability to pull whole stories out of a few miniscule, dry public records and newsletters; no matter how many times he saw it done, it retained its brilliance. He stood to cross the room and get into his suitcase. "So, what was it you were so excited about at the Institute?" Pausing on his way past, he rested a hand on the other man's left shoulder. "Thank you for breakfast."

"You're welcome, John." Sherlock lifted his hand to cover John's fingers with his own. "I found and read a copy of Arthur Crannock's sole published monograph, on the subject of the Bamboccianti: northern genre painters, mostly Dutch and Flemish, active in Rome in the seventeenth century."

Looking over the detective's shoulder, John saw that half of the computer screen was filled with photos of a man in his late twenties: ID shots, and photographs taken at what looked like various scholarly events. They showed a man used to being unnoticed; a thin and unhappy mouth, high forehead, longish limp hair of a sad dishwater brown. In every photograph his posture seemed slightly defensive, as if he were trying to protect himself from notice or ridicule; what stood out, though, were the eyes. Crannock's deepset eyes were bright blue, and intensely focused in a way that seemed to burn disturbingly out of the photographs.

"He looks a bit deranged to me," John commented. "Was his paper any good?"

"It was very slightly above average, written fairly intelligently. Nothing spectacular, by any means. And the choice of subject matter seems to have no bearing on anything. But in the end, what caught my attention more was the record of who had read that monograph before me."

"Yeah? Who was that?" His fingers were still held between the other man's hand and shoulder; he gave a tiny, friendly squeeze, and Sherlock lifted his hand suddenly, glancing up as if he'd forgotten John might not have planned to stand there indefinitely.

"As it was a small, relatively obscure research work, it was wholly unsurprising that it should receive no interest," Sherlock said. "It was only ever checked out twice from this collection before I took it. The name on both entries is Jacob Wocjek; he comes up on record as an employee of the Art Institute between 2002 and 2006. But, Wocjek was a _janitor._ "

"Really! What sort of janitor would have an interest in, um, Dutch and Flemish genre painters?"

A few mouse clicks, and a new photo appeared on the screen: an ID badge for one Jacob Wocjek. Sherlock smirked up at John, zooming in on the now-familiar high forehead and deepset blue eyes. "What sort, indeed."

 

.

 

John sat and idly flipped channels on the television, contentedly digesting his breakfast while waiting to get ready. Sherlock took what could easily be regarded as a fairly ridiculous amount of time in the shower. When he finally emerged—shortly after John had shifted from lazily fantasising about going in and kicking him out, to vaguely fantasising about going in and _not_ kicking him out—he was filled with fresh energy, and the wild light in his eyes said he'd made a new connection. He snatched up his phone and began texting excitedly, without explanation; when John came out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, dressed and ready, he was eager to leave.

"Have you made arrangements with Greg and Anna?" asked John.

"Later," Sherlock replied, gesturing dismissively as he spun into his overcoat. "First, we have things to do!"

When they exited the hotel, Sherlock hailed a taxi, and directed the driver to the Willis Tower; his knee jiggled impatiently as the vehicle began to move.

"Mind letting me in on what's going on?" asked John.

"We need to meet with an...acquaintance of mine," he answered, glancing over.

"Oh? I wasn't aware you knew people in Chicago."

"I helped him with a personal situation, and in return he helped me acquire some information I needed. It was a strategic alliance for me, purely in the interest of survival."

"Survival?" asked John, surprised.

Sherlock's lips thinned, and he turned to stare out the window. "Had I not been able to access the building plans, I would have found no way to get to my target before his associates closed in on me," he eventually muttered.

John opened his mouth, then closed it again. Over the last six months, whenever his companion had alluded to any tiny detail of the three years' absence, John had been hit by a wave of fresh anger and hurt; it had been the spark point for numerous arguments between them, and had resulted in their general avoidance of the whole topic ever since. Now, although he reflexively braced for it, the expected pain was conspicuously absent. The lack stunned him a bit; he studied his friend's pinched expression in profile, cautiously prodding inside his own mind like a tongue at the space of a missing tooth. _He looks more upset at thinking back on it than I am. I don't know if I ever noticed that before, I've been so wound up in myself..._

Tentatively, he slid his gloved hand across the seat and laid it over Sherlock's. "Thank you," he found himself saying.

"For what?"

"Surviving."

The taller man's head bent forward slightly, and he flipped his own hand to interlock his slim fingers with John's. They remained silent, holding hands, until the cab pulled to a stop.

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, John looked up with some surprise at the blocky, dark glass building. "Oh, isn't this Sears Tower? I remember it from primary school." At his friend's inquiring glance, he explained, "Did a diorama on the world's tallest buildings when I was nine."

"That must have been an artistic triumph. Yes—it was renamed in 2009." Sherlock led him briskly into the lobby of the familiar, iconic skyscraper and toward the central lifts leading up to the tallest shaft of the building. Once they were on their way up to the 103rd floor, he spoke under his breath. "Mr Brewster makes it a tradition to visit the Tower with his daughter every New Year's Day. One of the many incredibly inane facts I became privy to during our time together."

John still didn't understand exactly how this Mr Brewster had helped Sherlock, but as he was fairly certain it was something illegal, he chose not to ask questions while in the lift with two other couples. _Assuming he's willing to do whatever it is again, I'm sure all will be made clear soon enough._

 

.

 

Graham Brewster was a portly, balding black man with a kind and careworn face; his daughter Jacqui appeared to be in her mid-twenties, and she carried a young boy of about three on her hip. She shyly introduced the child as Devon, and John solemnly offered his hand to shake; he pulled a face at the last second, earning a giggle from the boy and a smile from the young woman.

"I see that there have been no further problems with that young ruffian," Sherlock observed, with a clipped nod to the girl.

"No, he's stayed away a whole year now, and he'll keep away if he knows what's good for him," rumbled the older man. "My grandson will be able to grow up safe with his mother, all thanks to you Mr Holmes."

"Just setting things as they should be," demurred the detective; John watched him turn away uncomfortably, shifting his gaze to the historical exhibit displays across the sparsely populated room. "It was but the effort of a moment to invalidate the threats against her custody."

John watched Sherlock shrug off the praise, and smiled at the idea of his aloof friend protecting the interests of a toddler. _Heartless, my arse._ Sensing the men's need for privacy, he turned to Jacqui and her son. "Here, let's go see the view on a ledge, shall we? I've never been, maybe you could tell me what some of the landmarks are."

The girl led him over to one of the ledges, and he stepped with her out into the glass box, shuddering slightly at the incredible illusion of being suspended in midair over thirteen hundred feet up. Jacqui had ample knowledge of the city, and pointed out a number of landmarks visible from their vantage; John found himself distracted, in turns, by the vivid images of falling his brain oh-so-helpfully supplied, and by the knowledge that Sherlock was arranging some presumably illicit activity a few feet behind him.

After a few minutes, probably having noticed that his polite responses had trailed off, she turned her full attention to Devon. John tuned out their quiet conversation and focused inward as he gazed over the city. He stood there on the glass, utterly still, his mind filled with conflicting and overlapping images and emotions: _the black coat fluttering like wings against that cloudless sky. The music he wrote in Moscow, all alone. The people he had to kill, the people that hurt him. The feeling of his lips on mine. Red stained sidewalk. The way he looks at Anna and Greg together. The way he looks at me..._

A hand on his shoulder interrupted his reverie, and then Sherlock stood at his side, now alone with him in the glass enclosure. Looking down, John was slightly more discomfited to see his friend's feet floating over the city than his own.

"It's settled. We'll meet Brewster at eight o'clock tonight." The deep voice paused. "Are you all right?"

He shifted his gaze upwards to meet pale, concerned eyes. Impulsively, he reached up and hooked his hand around behind the taller man's neck, pulling him down slightly—the eyes widened, startled, as he placed a quick, dry kiss at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"I'm okay," John said, smiling softly. _And for once, I think I really am._

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious to see what's going on inside Sherlock's head during the last scene of this chapter (and the first scene of Chapter 23), detour here to [File For Reference](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1179392).


	22. Anna - January 1 - 2:30 PM

  
**22\. Anna - January 1 - 2:30 PM**   


.

 

"What about this box of books, love?"

Anna hummed to herself, answering without looking up. "Which one? I want to keep the embroidery and art books up here, but the old mystery and sci-fi books can go down to the basement. I don't have a lot of shelf space." She unwrapped a few bits of old newspaper, and held a stained glass candle-stand up to the light.

"Nope, this one's...hm, bunch of cookbooks, and some yearbooks, and photo albums, oh!" Greg made a little noise of excitement; Anna turned to see him settling back on the sofa, a few old albums and yearbooks on his lap.

"Oh, boy. Looks like you found what _you_ wanted," she groaned, smiling.

"Come on then, get over here." He patted the seat beside him, giving her a wink.

She levered herself up off the floor, and crossed through the debris of boxes to join him. He threw an arm around her shoulders, already opening the first album across their laps.

"Didn't you get enough of this last week?" asked Anna, snuggling into his side. "I thought Mom subjected you to baby picture purgatory pretty thoroughly."

"Firstly, your mother is charming, and well within her rights to show you and your brothers off. Secondly, I'll never get tired of seeing your beautiful face, and hearing stories about everything I missed out on. Never."

She extended her arm across his slightly soft middle in a sideways hug, tilting her head to rest it in the crook of his shoulder; she revelled in the feel of his soft gray jumper smoothed over the firm muscles under her cheek and hands. "Okay, who am I to fight it, then? You really want to see my second grade play photos, have at it."

"Where are you in these?...No, no, wait. Don't tell me yet." Greg tilted the album up with his free hand and brought the yellowing adhesive pages closer to his face.

While he squinted at the children in the old photos, Anna turned her eyes upward and studied him in turn, trying to imagine his face in all its younger forms. _He must have been a real heartbreaker. I'll have to ask him to show me pictures._

"Wait—here?" He pointed, his face quizzical.

"I'm impressed, Detective Inspector! _Very_ impressed. Didn't think you could get that one from just the eyes."

"The cheeks too, and something about the way you're holding your arm out just so, don't ask me why but that just screams 'Anna' to me. Seriously though, they made you one of Snow White's dwarves?"

"It was partly based on singing talent, and partly because I was very vocal in my refusal to be apart from my new best friend." She pointed to little Andy, wielding his cardboard pickaxe proudly. "Besides, I thought the long gray beard was pretty fun to wear."

"It certainly is a fashion statement," he chuckled.

Anna reached out and flipped a few pages. "You want to see a fashion statement? Here, my dance recitals. Heinous crimes of Spandex, all of them..."

Laughing, he traced a finger lovingly over the page. "My Mum put me in ballroom lessons when I was eleven, did I tell you that?"

"No! Were you any good?"

Pulling a crooked grin, Greg began to answer, but was cut off by a trilling ring. He squeezed closer to her to lift his opposite hip and pull out his phone. "Lestrade...Afternoon John, I was wondering what you two were up to!" He absently stroked and kneaded Anna's shoulder as he listened. "Uh-huh...Well, good. Sure, we haven't made plans for supper yet, you can come by and we'll eat before we drive you over...Right. See you both in a few hours then, mate."

She tilted her head up as he laid the phone on the armrest. "Where are we driving them to?"

"Sherlock's arranged a meeting with an old contact of his, something to help him with the case. John didn't get into details, but it sounds like there's been some definite progress."

"Really?" _With the other progress I'm expecting of them, I'm almost surprised they've thought of the case at all today._ "That's promising. Any idea what we should have for dinner?"

Greg flipped another page in the album, smiling down at a photo of Anna, about thirteen years old, costumed like a Venetian gondolier and proudly standing behind a large bowl of pasta she'd made for her school's International Day. "How about Italian?"

 

.

 

The grocery store was a necessary evil, if they were to be making dinner for four—or three, or possibly three and a quarter. As the New Year had officially arrived, Christmas songs were no longer being continually piped in, however, which was a distinct relief. _Although I have to say I'd almost rather hear "Wonderful Christmas Time" again, than this,_ Anna thought, grimacing at the tinny, strings-laden rendition of "Light My Fire" currently assaulting her ears.

Weighing a few onions in her hand and performing some quick mental calculations, she turned to find she'd lost track of her companion. She took a step away from the produce display and craned her neck around a little further, finally seeing him in the next aisle further up. The sight of Greg Lestrade pushing a cart in Dominick's was so casually anomalous, she simply stopped where she stood and enjoyed it. He wasn't looking at her: he was instead intent on his comparison of the two jars of tomato sauce he held. As he frowned at one, put it back and picked up a third brand, he appeared totally unaware of the other shoppers passing. They hadn't been unaware of him, though: since they'd arrived, Anna had already noticed more than a couple slightly lascivious looks thrown his way from women her mother's age and older. _I don't think it's just because he's the youngest man in here, either, though that's certainly the case today. He doesn't seem to understand exactly how delicious he is...even my Mom has strong feelings about that!_

As if thinking about Charlotte's vocal opinion of his behind had psychically summoned him, Greg turned his head just then and found her with a smile, starting to push the cart again in her direction. She waved to him with the hand holding the onions, noticing mid-motion how ridiculous that must look and pairing the wave with a little embarrassed grimace. In return, he reached back into the cart and waved enthusiastically with the jar of sauce; the gesture and its accompanying goofy grin dispelled much of his classy aura...but didn't make a dent in his deliciousness.

 

.

 

A little while later, they were strolling slowly up the breakfast cereal aisle toward the registers; Anna had taken control of their cart, and he walked at her side. His hand rested softly at the small of her back, a relaxed gesture of familiarity and comfort that warmed her through her wool coat.

"I wonder if we should try and get out and do something?" mused Greg.

"What, before dinner?" she asked, confused.

"No, I mean, if all this hadn't happened, we would've been doing things, yeh? Seeing sights, visiting attractions, like that."

"I'm sure we would. Sorry, I'll bet you feel shortchanged, don't you? This is all completely weird for me, but it's probably a lot closer to what you deal with at work, and you're supposed to be on holiday."

Greg stopped walking, his attention caught by the packaging of one of the more ridiculous sugary cereals on offer. "This is still a far cry from being at work," he said distractedly.

"Don't I know it, Mister I'll-Just-Pocket-This-Weird-Key..."

"Hey!" Greg's ears were suddenly red again; he put down the garish box of "Smorz" and turned to her with an indignant look that said _maybe if I tickle you you'll stop bringing that up!_

She giggled, putting her hands up to ward off retribution. "Fine, fine! Subject closed!" As they started walking again, she continued, "I have to believe this won't be a problem much longer, right? Surely we can get in a few of the touristy things you might want to do, before you have to go."

"Sure, yeah. Maybe in another day or two Sherlock'll have it sussed out. Then, I'll have you all to myself..." He stroked his chin in a parody of thoughtfulness, and made her giggle again.

"I'm sure they'll be happy to get back home," she said, remembering Sherlock's wide smile early that morning.

Greg was mostly quiet after that, for a while.

 

.

 

The pasta sauce was simmering cheerfully by six o'clock, and music filled the kitchen along with the smells of their cooking. They'd set up Anna's freshly unpacked CD changer stereo in the corner of the dining room, and it was shuffling through a mix of her favourites.

Humming along quietly to the old Counting Crows tune playing, Anna turned from the stove to see Greg busy at the far end of the counter, quite handily performing a fine chiffonade on the fresh basil. A pile of perfectly minced garlic already waited in a little prep bowl next to him.

"I have to say, I'm a little surprised at your knife skills, honey," she teased lightly as she retrieved the box of pasta. "You always strike me more as a beans-on-toast kind of guy."

"Now, now, I only served you that _once!_ " he protested, in mock-affront. "And if you'll recall, there were extenuating circumstances..."

"Oh, I remember. And I even have jewelry to jog my memory, in case I ever have trouble," she laughed, flicking a fingertip over the tiny silver crutch charm at her left wrist to illustrate the point.

Shrugging, he slid the basil aside and reached over for the loaf of French bread, so that he could continue prepping their bruschetta. "I admit, I know my way around the food of a poor bachelor, and not entirely by choice. But sometimes it's worth it to make an effort."

She smiled as she turned away from him to pour cavatappi into the boiling water and stir the sauce. "I completely agree."

The track ended, and after a brief silence, a moderately up-tempo jazz swing song began with a flourishing clarinet and trumpet intro: Harry Connick Junior's "If I Could Give You More." In the next moment she heard the quiet clatter of an abandoned knife, and then Greg's strong, gentle hands were at her hips.

"May I have this dance?" came the gravel-edged voice close at her ear.

Anna dropped her spoon onto the stove in surprise just before she was swept smoothly around into position. Her left arm was perfectly supported on his right, and he led her in an easy back and forth rhythm, turning round and round the kitchen. When he twirled her before the start of the instrumental section, she burst into giggles.

His expression was warm. "You've done this before."

"Not for a long time," she laughed, giving a little squeeze to his leading hand. "Thanks for keeping it simple!"

"It's been a long time for me, too," he told her, grinning as he twirled her a second time and brought her back in close.

She had a joking remark to make, but it died on her lips as she looked up at him; by the reprise verse their dancing had begun to devolve, bringing them far closer together than the steps warranted. The song ended with the two of them pressed tightly together, barely swaying side to side, and when the knocking came at the front door it was a long moment before either of them moved.

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the song Greg and Anna danced to, if you care to hear it:
> 
> [If I Could Give You More](https://myspace.com/harryconnickjr/music/song/if-i-could-give-you-more-28351651-28158540) 
> 
>    
>  _If I could give you more_  
>  _I'd fill the house with flowers_  
>  _Let you sleep for hours_  
>  _Throw open the windows and unlock the doors_  
>  _If I could give you more_
> 
>    
>  _If I could give you more_  
>  _I'd make the streets safe_  
>  _For every homeless waif_  
>  _That wanders alone to a foreign shore_  
>  _If I could give you more_
> 
>    
>  _See that you are sainted_  
>  _Remain true and pure_  
>  _So that you never get lost_  
>  _No matter what you may endure_
> 
>    
>  _If I could give you more_  
>  _I'd hand the world a phrase_  
>  _That could not be erased_  
>  _And tells of a love that's never been before_  
>  _Oh, I will give you more_


	23. John - January 1 - 12:15 PM

  
**23\. John - January 1 - 12:15 PM**   


.

 

When they left the Willis Tower, Sherlock led the way to a nearby deli and coffee shop. He looked pensive, staring out the window, as he waited silently for John to finish a small sandwich and a packet of crisps. For his part, the doctor was still feeling a bit out-of-step with reality after his time on the observation ledge; he was content to eat quietly, but by the time he finished he was feeling much refreshed.

"Would you be amenable to walking awhile?" asked Sherlock, as they stepped back out onto the street.

John gave him a look of slight bewilderment— _hasn't he been on a long walk already this morning?_ —but, as the temperature had risen to somewhat above freezing, he shrugged and nodded. "All right, whatever you like."

Conversation was sparse as they walked east on Jackson, then turned north to proceed away from a ponderous, heavy-footed dark brick skyscraper. After a few blocks, Sherlock turned them east for a block, then north again on State Street; they continued walking north through a shopping district.

John split his attention between the unfamiliar buildings, in their variety of architectural styles, and his companion. The tall man appeared to be scanning their surroundings and committing things to memory; not an unusual activity for him, but the expression on his face wasn't quite normal for that.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" he finally asked.

There was a pause, and then his friend turned away from his oddly solemn scrutiny of the Chicago Theatre marquee to meet his inquiring gaze. "Overwriting," he replied, expressionless.

John lifted one eyebrow. "That's a new one. Care to explain?"

"Not particularly," sniffed the detective, his lips twisting unhappily. He resumed his brisk stride northward toward the State Street bridge.

"All right," John muttered to himself, following with a frown.

Sherlock came to a sudden stop on the bridge's pedestrian walkway, leaning on his forearms over the railing. As his friend caught up and took a stance beside him, he spoke quietly, without looking away from the sunlight sparkling on the Chicago River. "I was someone else, when I was here."

John thought he might have an inkling, but he asked anyway. "What?"

"This is the only place I have been twice in the last three years; I had never expected to return. I do not intend to return to most of those places, but being here again, as myself...with you,"—he swallowed, still not looking over—"it's important."

"Ah."

There was more to say, more to ask, but silence seemed so much more appropriate. They took their time with it, gazing out over the river.

John studied the odd pair of fluted towers on the riverbank across from them; they put him in mind of corn cobs, possibly, or something else familiar he couldn't quite put a name to. As he turned the problem over in his mind, his companion finally stirred and turned from the railing.

"All right, Sherlock?"

"All right," he replied, with a little exhale that wasn't quite a sigh. He glanced over to his friend and then out to the street. "We should get a cab back to the hotel; I'd like to work on the computer a bit. You can call Lestrade now, and make arrangements for tonight. We'll need a ride to the warehouse."

 

.

 

They arrived at Anna's home a little bit earlier than planned, and it took a long minute for their friends to answer the door.

"Ah, sorry lads!" said Greg, a touch breathlessly, when they were finally allowed in. "We were in the kitchen, didn't hear."

"Save the prevarication, Lestrade, it's obvious you _did_ hear," Sherlock chided him lowly, hanging the Belstaff next to Anna's red peacoat.

"Yeah. Well." The DI's expression was slightly embarrassed for a moment, but as John watched it dissolved back into a pleased smile. He clapped the doctor on the shoulder companionably as they all passed into the dining room, where a stereo played some mid-nineties pop music John couldn't place; something terribly cheerful about changing lanes in cars.

Anna's voice drifted from the kitchen. "Hi guys, Happy New Year! I hope you both had a good day!" The voice was followed by the woman herself: hair loosely put up in a clip, hazel eyes sparkling, and wiping her hands on a dishtowel as she entered. With a quick, smiling glance toward Sherlock, she flung the towel to drape over one shoulder. She made a beeline to her stereo, swiftly changing the discs in rotation to a stack she had waiting on top. Within moments a gentle Baroque recorder concerto replaced the unfamiliar pop song; smiling, Anna leaned over to give the doctor the small greeting hug that had been customary between them since London, then returned to the kitchen once more. "Dinner should be ready in just a few minutes," she called back over her shoulder.

John saw a subtle line of tension leave Sherlock's neck and jaw at the far end of the room. "She knows what she's doing," he remarked quietly, nudging Greg with an elbow.

In response, he chuckled and ran a hand over his greying hair. "She picks up on things like that all the time...stuff I wouldn't even have thought of." He moved to follow Anna out of the room. "Wine?"

"Sure." He turned and watched his flatmate silently take a seat on the far side of the table, against the wall. Sherlock reached out with two fingers and made a minute adjustment to the alignment of the red linen placemat—a new addition to the table that John had last seen covered in computers—with a slight frown, then leaned back in his seat and stared off into space.

Anna bustled back in, her arms loaded down with a stack of plates, a handful of silverware, and four drinking glasses balanced on top. John willingly stepped forward to take some of the dishes and help her set places; she hesitated at the far end of the table. "Will you be having any, Sherlock?" After five seconds without receiving so much as a twitch in response, she shrugged. Glancing back at John with a little smirk, she put a setting in front of the detective anyway.

She and Greg passed again at the doorway to the kitchen, stepping around each other with skilful familiarity; the DI carried a freshly opened bottle of Merlot and four crystal wine glasses, stems carefully splayed between his fingers. "Right, you pour," he said, relinquishing his burden to John and turning immediately from the table. "I think my bruschetta's about ready to come out."

John sat down next to Sherlock, and once the two of them were alone in the room, he bumped a knee against his friend's. "Hey."

"Hm?"

"Are you going to be on another planet this whole night?" he asked, studying the man's face as he poured wine into three glasses.

Sherlock's expression was unremittingly distant, as if carved from soft stone; it lacked the cold austerity of one of his truly unpleasant moods, though, and after a moment he did respond. "I'm thinking. Is there a problem?"

"Look, I'm used to this,"— _and so is Greg, and surely Anna's figured it for normal by now_ —"but the fact remains we're guests, tonight. It seems like Anna went to a lot of trouble here, and I'd really rather you not upset her." He hesitated, considering, then went ahead and placed his own glass of wine in front of his friend. Filling the fourth wineglass for himself, he gently added, "I'm not saying you have to load up your plate, or put on an act...just, she likes you an awful lot. It'd be nice if you were present."

They sat for a minute, listening to the muffled talk and quiet sounds of their friends getting things ready in the next room. Then the stiffness drained out of Sherlock, like a gradual wave of softness passing the crown of his head downward, and he reached forward to delicately grasp the stem of his wineglass.

"I like her too," he said, meditatively, slowly bringing his hand up and studying the garnet light passing through the cut crystal.

"I know you do."

Greg and Anna returned to the table, then, bearing a platter of bruschetta, a pitcher of ice water and a delicious-smelling bowl of pasta; as they settled in their seats, Anna raised her wineglass and proposed a toast. "To the New Year, and to friends."

Four glasses met and rang together, and John smiled.

 

.

 

Just before eight o'clock, as promised, the group drove westward to the industrial areas surrounding Midway Airport; Anna and Greg waited out in her car, tucked discreetly in a shadowy area between burnt-out pole lights, while John followed his partner across the lot toward the boxy, utilitarian Iron Mountain storage warehouse.

"You haven't gotten around to explaining this outing yet, you know," he huffed, his breath making little clouds as he followed quickly in Sherlock's wake.

"This storage facility happens to be the holding location for a number of the city's architectural firms," Sherlock said, slowing his pace slightly. "They send plans, paper records and other media from their old, completed jobs here, where they are indexed and can be called back if needed."

"And there's a certain set of plans you need to see?"

"A few sets, actually. There were two major construction projects done in the environs of the Art Institute just over a decade ago; both were handled by Farriman Consulting, and both projects' records should be stored here."

The tall man tapped lightly at an unmarked steel door, and it opened to reveal Brewster, in a security uniform; he motioned them in hurriedly with a little grimace.

"Okay, boys, I pulled out the blueprints you asked for. How much time will you be needing, Mr Holmes?" he asked, leading them down long corridors of tall racking system shelves.

"Not more than an hour, I shouldn't think, Mr Brewster; John will man the camera, and we'll simply record everything as quickly as possible, then go over it all later to sort out what I need. I don't want to keep you away from your family for too long."

"Thank you for your help," John said politely, pulling off his gloves and stashing them away.

Brewster coughed, and nodded as he kept walking ahead of them. "You say I'm helping a young lady who's being stalked by murderers, and that's more than enough for me. I only hope these documents give you two what you need."

They came to a cleared area with a tall rolling stepladder pulled up tight against a large worktable; a stack of rolled prints waited to one side. Brighter lamps here made the work area seem like a shining oasis, turning the perfectly normal lighting levels of the surrounding racking areas dim and ominous by comparison.

"Just text me when you've finished, then, and I'll keep outta your hair this time around," said the older man as he left them, eliciting a well-hidden sigh of relief from Sherlock.

 

.

 

The partners fell into a quiet rhythm quickly; John stood up on the ladder platform, leaned on its railing out over the table and took a few shots of each blueprint from directly overhead as Sherlock rolled it out and lined it up.

When they'd made it through about three quarters of the plans, the detective broke their silence. "You have high expectations, John," he said quietly, not looking up to his friend.

It took John a few photographs to determine the subject of the non sequitur. "Sure I do. Don't you?"

He efficiently rolled up the plan and pulled out another. "My extrapolations are based on experience and collected data. It doesn't benefit me to be too optimistic."

This earned him a little snort. "Right, Sherlock, so what data exactly has suddenly convinced you it won't work?"

"Your history tells me you have certain needs, in terms of a physical relationship. My recent observations remind me that my own requirements are...markedly different in scope." Sherlock's movements had become progressively more jerky and abrupt, as if he continued to work with the plans through sheer force of will not to stalk off.

John looked down silently on his friend for a minute. "And what did Anna advise you?"

This brought the curly head sharply up, and the grey eyes that fixed on him looked vaguely betrayed.

"Idiot," John said fondly. "No, she didn't tell me. Where else would I guess you'd gone last night? You were out in the cold far too long—and by the way, don't you dare pull that stunt again. That's what cabs are for!—but you obviously weren't outside the whole time. I know you didn't talk with Greg, he's easy to read. So, _he_ doesn't know you were there. Anna, on the other hand, can be remarkably good at controlling her face...but I know what she said to _me,_ yesterday afternoon." Smirking at the slightly stunned expression on Sherlock's face, he snapped a quick photo of him just to get his goat. "So what did she say?"

"She...wants me to set up a signal with you. A safe word or some such, as if we're to be entering into a BDSM arrangement." _Preposterous,_ John read clearly in his face.

Even with his partner expressing doubts that seemed to threaten their new, fragile balance, John felt nothing so much as the desire to hug the maddening man below. "A signal? That's not a bad idea."

Sherlock's brow drew low, and his lips tightened. "I won't be able to give you what you need," he stated bitterly.

This fatalistic declaration brought a sudden surge of stomach-churning feeling—hurt, desperation, anger—that quickly overtook John's milder reaction. "You sound so _sure_ of that." Snapping his photos, he gestured curtly for the next print, and bit out, "You know what I need, do you?"

Petulant silence.

John closed his eyes and spoke in a rush, willing his voice not to tremble. "Seven months ago, I only needed _one_ thing, and I couldn't have it, because it was fucking _gone,_ forever. Two months ago, I still thought that if I admitted what I needed, it would be taken away. One week ago, I got a glimpse—just one incredible glimpse—that what I needed might truly need me after all, if I could only stop being so damned afraid. Three days ago, I started to really wonder what would happen if I took a chance; last night, God, last night—you git, how do you not understand? I want you, I _love you,_ Sherlock, and if all we _ever_ did was hold hands when nobody's looking, I'd bloody well take it..." Breathless and surprised at himself, he raised one shaking hand to his cheek, half-expecting wetness but not finding any. Opening his eyes, he looked back to the table below: _he's not even there!_

He only had time for a split second's shock, before the ladder shuddered underneath him; he spun on the small metal platform just as long arms came up around him. Sherlock was standing on the uppermost step, and they were nose to nose, just like at Christmas.

"We'll talk about a signal later, then," the taller man breathed. This time there was no chocolate, no rum, and no hesitation: Sherlock was kissing him, and it was all John could do not to drop his camera.

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see this chapter's dinner scene from Sherlock's perspective, detour here to [Refraction](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1215070)


	24. Anna - January 1 - 7:50 PM

  
**24\. Anna - January 1 - 7:50 PM**   


.

 

Anna followed Sherlock's instructions, driving them into the unfamiliar, industrialised area west and slightly south of Midway. There, she eventually found the correct warehouse, and pulled her Honda into a deserted lot. _I wonder if they do night shifts here, normally. Convenient it's a holiday, if so._

"How long will it be?" she asked, as she circled around toward a dark area she'd noticed among the parking spaces.

"An hour, perhaps, or not much longer," replied the consulting detective smoothly. "You needn't wait, if you'd rather come back at a prearranged time."

"No, I don't mind waiting here. Do you, Greg?" Seeing the shake of her lover's head, Anna threw the car into park and killed the headlights. Unbuckling her belt and twisting in her seat, she fixed the two men in the back with a serious look. "You're sure this isn't risky for you?"

"It's much less risky than the alternative way of gaining the information I'm after." Glancing at the clock on her dashboard, Sherlock sniffed and opened his door. "If you'll excuse us, now—we don't want to keep Mr Brewster waiting. Come, John."

All was quiet in the car for a minute or two after John and Sherlock left. Greg watched them cross the lot, scanning the surrounding area with stern, assessing eyes until the two men had disappeared inside the building.

Anna's gaze, however, remained on Greg rather than following the others. Every time he did this in her presence, she found herself faintly awestruck: it was as if the competent, authoritative professional hid completely within the sweet, romantic and slightly goofy man she usually saw. Sometimes the two sides of him seemed to blend more closely together, but more often it was like watching a coin slowly falling and flipping in midair.

"Amazing," she breathed, without meaning to speak.

Greg turned to her, and the moment his brown eyes met hers, his whole face softened indescribably without really changing expressions, as his full attention was brought to focus on her. "What's that, love?"

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "You. Um." With a little shrug, she tried to figure out how to express what she was thinking. "Just, the way you do that, it's amazing to watch."

One eyebrow twitched briefly upward. "I do what now?"

"You—flip back and forth. One second you're just Greg, lovely and funny and kind, and the next second you're DI Lestrade, and you just radiate this incredible sense of power and control."

_"Really."_

"You're not telling me you don't know you do it!"

He tossed his head, with a little breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "I dunno, Anna, maybe I have a bit of an attention switch, but 'power and control'? Not the words I'd use, sweet."

"Why not?"

"For one thing, you have no idea how often my job puts me completely out of my depth. It keeps me up nights, sometimes, knowing what's out there. There are things I've seen, things that—well." He blinked and swallowed, clearly putting memories back in their hiding places before he continued. "And, it's hard not gawping like a fish when Sherlock's in the room making deductions over a corpse. Can't imagine I look too powerful, then."

She smiled gently. "Well, I admit I've had a limited view to you on the job—it's not as if you've brought me to the Yard—but I'll tell you this: you have never seen yourself, if you don't think you do it. It's like, in a split second, everything about you changes."

Frowning, he shifted in his seat. "In a good way or in a bad way?"

"In a way that says 'I know what I'm doing' and 'I'll keep you safe.' And I do feel incredibly safe with you," she said. She took his hand as she spoke, and studied the broad knuckles and closely trimmed nails.

"I hope you feel that way with lovely, kind Greg too," he murmured, stroking his thumb over her wrist. It brushed, tickling, against the charm bracelet she still wore almost every day.

Laughing, Anna leaned forward and claimed a brief kiss. When she straightened back up in her seat, she answered, "Of course I do, how could I not? But I'm pretty sure when you take charge like that, it's not just me you affect; I can't imagine you usually have a lot of problems calming down innocent bystanders or witnesses, do you? Though I'd hope those other people you deal with aren't affected _quite_ as much as me..."

His nose crinkled slightly. "Why?"

"Because I also find it _insanely_ hot, that's why!"

Greg's chocolate eyes turned dark at her words, and his short lashes flickered low. He made a pleased little growl in the back of his throat, and leaned in to capture her in another kiss, this time deep and insistent, with his right hand cupping her cheek. Had Anna been standing, she surely would have lost her balance; the vivid memory that brought— _his strong arms lifting me off the ground, that first time in his flat_ —sent a wave of extra sensation coursing through her, and she moaned softy into his mouth.

"Anna," he panted, roughly, between kisses. "Anna, I love you so much."

"Mm." Cursing the console for interfering with her desire to get even closer, she broke the kiss and rested her forehead against his, bringing both hands up to his face. Her voice shook as she whispered, "Love you too. God, I don't know what I'll do without you."

 

.

 

By the time they saw movement once more at the side of the building, they had calmed down and subsided to just holding hands, listening to the radio at low volume while quietly chatting about various unimportant things. After the intensity of the emotions they'd expressed, a tidal wave held in check only by their simultaneously exposed and confined location, it was as if they had made an unspoken agreement to back off; they'd returned to the relative safety of topics like food and city sights, even as the heady rush of their being so near each other tingled up and down Anna's spine.

Although it had been some minutes ago, she checked her reflection in the rearview mirror when she saw their friends approaching; she almost expected she'd still be flushed and kiss-swollen. _Thank goodness they didn't get finished while we were still pawing at each other like teenagers,_ she told herself wryly. _Although I suppose the signs don't need to be obvious at all, do they? If Sherlock wants to know what we've been up to out here, he'll know, that's certain._

When the car doors opened and John and Sherlock slipped in, bringing a rush of cold air in with them, Anna braced herself for a knowing comment...but it didn't come. She glanced up to the reflection of the back seat as she pulled on her safety belt, and was struck by a momentary clarity. _Something's different,_ she thought, but even as the words crossed her mind she found she couldn't explain why she'd thought it or what she'd seen. Just then, both men shot separate looks back at her, one assessing, one thoughtful; fighting a blush, she kept her face neutral as she pulled the vehicle into motion.

 

.

 

"More computer time now, right?" asked Anna, pulling off her coat and scarf with some relief to hang them in her entryway.

"I think so," sighed John, shifting the messenger bag off his shoulder and juggling it from hand to hand to remove his own coat. "I'll go ahead and get it set up."

Sherlock hung his own items quickly and reached out for the bag, solicitous but just a hair too late to really help John with the movement. "Extra eyes won't help me with this work, unfortunately. Perhaps you three would enjoy watching a film while I study the plans; I see that Anna now has her television and DVD player back."

Shutting the door and locking it behind him, Greg turned to John with a grin. "I was just unpacking her film collection this afternoon, she's got a few I wouldn't mind putting on. Wanna look through 'em with me?"

Anna watched the two of them crouch companionably in front of the little media cabinet Greg had filled for her; smiling, she followed the third man into the dining room. "Would you like some tea, Sherlock?"

"Mm. Please," he said distractedly, already booting up his computer and pulling the memory card from John's camera.

She smirked to herself as she moved on into the kitchen and put on the kettle. _So polite. Yep, something's definitely different._ She pulled down four mugs, then rummaged around in the pantry for a little tray and some sweet things to serve—all she could find was Oreos and Nutter Butters; turning back to the counter, she hesitated. _I know how Greg takes his tea...Sherlock fixed his own this morning, didn't I watch?_

Before she could even decide to go and ask, Sherlock's smooth baritone called in from the next room. "Milk in both, and no sugar for John."

She broke into a wide grin, shaking her head in laughing disbelief. "Thanks."

A few minutes later, she carried the tray out and paused to give Sherlock his mug; she'd purposely used the same one she'd given him early that morning. He noticed, of course, and met her gaze with a tiny upward quirk of his lips.

"All right?" she murmured, smiling back.

He blinked slowly, still holding his wintry eyes on her with the odd fractionally-smiling expression that she would have considered disturbingly alien, not so long ago. Now, she found herself interpreting it as _incredibly happy, on the inside._

"Quite," he replied softly, and she knew she was right.

 

.

 

As Anna reentered the living room, John hopped up from the sofa to assist her with the tea tray. "It took some doing, but we finally agreed on a movie," he told her, smiling.

"Oh, good. I'm sure whatever you guys want to watch is fine, I barely even remember what I own. What did you choose?"

"The Fifth Element," he answered, turning away from her to pick up his mug and sit back down.

Distantly, she felt her smile falter for a split second, as if her face didn't really belong to her; the disconcerting moment of tunnel vision was gone so quickly she didn't think the doctor had noticed it.

Greg, however, had returned from the bathroom with perfect timing to see her face from the hallway, and was at her side a moment later. "Anna?" he questioned quietly, close to her ear.

Shaking her head sheepishly, she gave him a tight smile. "Sorry, I'm fine! Just—I didn't look at any of the stuff you unpacked over there. A lot of the DVDs were David's, I didn't remember what was in those boxes, you know? I didn't even look at it all, I just...threw everything into the storage unit, when I left for London." She could tell she was babbling a bit; she moved to sit in the centre of the sofa between the two men, fighting the flush she felt creeping down her neck.

Greg had placed a steadying hand at her back before they sat down, and now he rubbed it in little circles. "Are you sure it's okay?"

"Why wouldn't it be? It's a great film. The fact that it was David's favourite doesn't mean I can never watch it again!" Her lips twisted in a grimace of embarrassment at her silly reaction.

John leaned forward to the coffee table and retrieved her tea; after she accepted it from him, he scooted a hair closer and rested a hand on her knee reassuringly. "Can I make a suggestion?"

She took a deep breath of the steam from her mug, and nodded.

"We'll put it on, as long as you promise to point out all of the parts David liked best," he continued, "that way we can all enjoy it together with him. And if you ever want to stop watching, you'll let us know. Deal?"

"I...all right. Deal."

Sherlock must have been listening in; just after her response, his voice called in from the next room. _"Therapy!"_

The tone of his voice was somewhat derisive, and both of the men on the sofa with her frowned in consternation; their frowns turned to confused half-smiles a moment later, when Anna let out a sudden peal of laughter at the ostensibly insulting comment.

She grinned, shaking her head, and snuggled back between the two of them when she'd caught her breath. "Right. Greg, pass me a couple Oreos, and let's start the movie!"

 

.

 

The layout Anna had chosen for the living room made her comfortable, overstuffed sofa the only really ideal location for watching television. Andy's loveseat in the window was suitable, but just a little too oblique and close; she'd purposely arranged her stitching area at the far end of the front room, facing the back of the television which acted as a room divider, to save her distractions while working. Quite possibly, Anna could have found a different, better arrangement for the furniture when Chaz had brought it back; now, however, she heartily praised her unintentional foresight. She'd fully expected to be cuddled up into Greg's side, but within twenty minutes the cozy sofa had worked magic on all three of them—or maybe her friends felt she needed exceptional amounts of comforting. _I don't care which, good god,_ she thought in a haze of happiness, as John casually held her feet in his lap and gave her an exceptional foot rub. _Does medical training make you that good at foot rubs?_ Dismissing the question as pointless, she tried to keep her focus on what they were watching, while attempting to avoid repeating the pleased, involuntary noise that had made both men giggle at her a few minutes before.

They had only made it to the taxi chase scene—not terribly far into the film at all—when Milla Jovovich was interrupted by a triumphant shout from Sherlock.

Greg pressed pause, and he and John raised arms for Anna to extricate herself; the three of them dutifully made their way into the dining room to be enlightened. "What have you got?" he prompted.

"I've found exactly what I had hoped to—possibly the greatest accomplishment of Arthur Crannock's artistic career: his disappearance into a safe haven!"

John frowned, moving around to stand close behind his flatmate's shoulder. "Artistic career? I would have thought the word you wanted would be 'criminal'?"

Sherlock stretched his long neck upward and around to exchange a look with the blond man. "Think, John! I've already explained, it's not about the _crimes!_ It's _all_ about the art. Every idea Crannock has realised, through the actions of his small group, has been an expression of the larger concept. For him, the crimes themselves _are_ his artistic statements, the performance inherent in taking some existing art and twisting it to an unlawful or destructive purpose!"

The doctor silently levelled a long, tolerant look down at his companion; after a moment, the genius blinked. "Oh. Hadn't I explained that yet?"

"No, actually you hadn't," responded John, with a smirk. "Please, do go on."

"He considers himself an artist first and foremost; on the whole, not many of his plots are well-noticed or bring him any personal benefit in the end. Enough for him that he's created a subversive criminal performance. Crannock has a grand vision, clouded by an erratic and disturbed mind. He's been dabbling in various mediums and continually searching for new inspiration—creating in fits and starts, and sometimes discarding ideas half-finished: perpetually struggling to express himself against limited scope. Over time he has gained followers, assistants if you will, with various areas of expertise, and various levels of involvement. Those at the highest levels, closest to him, feel that they share his artistic vision, at least in part; they carry out and pass on his ideas as they come, acting almost as apprentices in a studio. The members in the middle ranges accept requests and field logistics; while understanding that they are taking part in a performance, they are not necessarily cognizant of the overall concept of the artwork. Those on the lowest levels remain merely paid help, grunt-work to take care of the dirty side jobs."

"Like Lenny Paulos and his partner—searching for Drew, and killing Hammond," Greg said, resting a hip against the table and crossing his arms over his chest. "So you say this Crannock has a safe haven?"

"Crannock despises the formalised art world as a whole, for the frustrations it caused him—but he seems to have burrowed his home out of the side of that world quite cleverly." Sherlock angled the screen of his laptop to be seen more easily by the three standing around him, and pointed. "He's managed to arrange and hide the construction of a series of secret underground rooms, located directly underneath the Art Institute of Chicago!"

 

\-----

 


	25. John - January 2 - 5:20 PM

  
**25\. John - January 2 - 5:20 PM**   


.

 

 _There's something oddly satisfying about secrecy, real or imagined,_ John reflected, as he stood by himself and sipped coffee from a paper cup in the hotel lobby.

Certainly it made no difference that Anna knew where he and Sherlock stood, or at least where they had stood two nights ago—and, he supposed, it mattered little whether Greg knew, in the end. After all, Greg had apparently been told, back in London, about Sherlock's original declaration— _god, that day in the pub feels like ages ago!_ —and he'd seemed to take it in stride. But John had watched carefully yesterday, and was certain that the DI had no idea anything had changed since October. The conclusion: Anna had almost certainly promised Sherlock she wouldn't tell, and she'd been incredibly careful since their conversation. For some reason, this gave John a strange little thrill. He knew it couldn't hold for long—and there was no reason for it, really—but knowing that this tentative, beautiful thing was his and Sherlock's alone, just for now, was a warm spot in the pit of his stomach.

"John."

The sound of the familiar velvet baritone caused that warm spot to jump. He turned to see his partner approaching from the elevators, cool and resplendent in darkness: the Belstaff hung open around a kohl suit and black silk shirt. A smile tugged at one side of John's mouth. _Wherever he got himself off to all afternoon, he still found the time to come back and change. He always did like the black shirt for skulking around at night._

"You left your gloves," Sherlock admonished him, pressing the dark leather into John's free hand while looping his scarf about his own neck.

John nodded, pocketing them. "Thanks." He opened his mouth to ask where his friend had been, but the tall man was already moving past him to peer out into the darkness outside the lobby, standing with his nose practically pressed against the glass.

"You did tell them quarter after five?"

"Yes..."

He frowned, grey eyes flinty in his reflection. "They're late."

"It's only five minutes, Sherlock, it's fine."

"He's going to propose, you know."

John startled at the sudden comment, and hot coffee splashed against his lip. He reflexively licked it off. "What, _today?_ "

A hand waved dismissively. "No! Of course not. Likely he'll wait until he gets her to come back to London: he's insecure, wants it to be done on familiar ground."

He stepped up close to Sherlock's side and tilted his head to study the clinical expression on the man's face. "And why did I need to know this, right now?"

The eyebrow closest to John rose slowly. "You were thinking about enjoying secrets; I thought you might like to be party to another one."

"How do you _do_ that?"

"It was obvious, in the recording of the video chat with her brother," the detective told him offhandedly, as he leaned to one side for a better view of the approach to the drop-off area.

"No," he said, rattled, "no, how do you know what I'm thinking like that?"

At this, his friend turned from the glass to face him, cocking his head to match the angle of John's exactly. "Wouldn't you like to know?" he purred, with a tiny smile.

 _Jesus, he's actually flirting with me!_ Eyes wide, John drew a long breath through his nose. Their faces were only an inch or two apart; from this distance he could clearly see the tiny brown-gold spot on one opalescent iris...

"Now, now. You'll _never_ keep a secret looking like that, John! They're here," he rumbled, flashing a wider grin for a split second. He deliberately brushed past too closely, making contact at John's shoulder and elbow as he moved briskly to the door.

Tamping down hard on the instant flash of combined arousal and befuddlement, the doctor squared his shoulders and pivoted abruptly in place to follow.

 

.

 

Anna looked concerned as they slid into the back seat of her car. John watched her tap fingers on the steering wheel in an erratic rhythm. "Tell me again why you're not just contacting authorities with this?" she asked in a low voice, as she pulled away from the Hyatt.

"Simply having an image created from overlapping various versions of plans and change orders—acquired less than legally, I might add—isn't enough to prove there's actually anything there," explained Sherlock patiently from behind her, his face turned into the window. "And the fact that these hidden changes were added to the plans in 2003 doesn't guarantee that Crannock completed the space, or remained there to the present day, or even that he ever used it at all. Better to seek out the entrance on our own; once I've proven the hideout exists and is in regular use, of course, I can present solid evidence for the arrest of Crannock and any local associates."

She sighed and glanced up, meeting John's eyes in the rearview mirror. "All right. The three of you know a hell of a lot more about how this all works than I do—I get that. But you'd better be careful."

"You know we will be, Anna," John assured her, in his most calming voice.

She sniffed, frowning a little; after another minute's silent driving, she visibly made the decision to change the subject and address her boyfriend. "All right, so, I have a couple errands to run. Think you'll be done looking after these guys in time to meet me for dinner?"

"I'm sure that won't be a problem, love," replied Greg, turning a little in his seat to smile at the other men. The excited light in his eyes was a very specific expression that John hadn't seen in a while: the same anticipatory gleam the DI had when he'd met up with them at Dartmoor. _Mycroft always said I was addicted to adrenalin, but I think Greg has a bit of a dependency too, when it comes to it. I don't think anything quite that exciting is planned tonight, though._

 

.

 

Sunset was an hour past, and the last crowds had already cleared the Institute after its closing for the day: with the temperature dropping and snow beginning to fall, very few passersby had remained outside in the area of Millennium Park. The three Londoners wished Anna goodbye at the kerb—she had dropped them at the corner closest to the large videoscreen fountains; Sherlock remained still for a moment, watching Anna's vehicle pull away and disappear in the traffic.

"Of course, we'd not have come this far in the case if not for you, Lestrade," he said briskly—almost as if continuing a sentence that he had begun silently inside his head. He turned to lead them down the sidewalk along the south side of the park.

The other two exchanged a look, and moved to trail behind. "How's that?" asked John, not sure if he was prompting his flatmate to continue a compliment, a clarification, or simply a snide remark.

"His uncharacteristically impulsive procurement of the key was instrumental in leading me here, to this _exact_ location." As they walked together at the aimless, measured speed of harmless tourists, Sherlock paced them with a steady stream of explanation, occasionally turning and walking backwards to face them and underscore his points. "This type of shaft-keyed lock system is rare, and generally found only in Russia; in cross referencing, I found that Arthur Crannock had been involved with a Russian student exchange program during his undergraduate work, and that one Petrov Vedenin was closely associated with him there. From that point, it was a simple matter to trace Petrov's brother Alexei, who immigrated to Chicago and started a subcontracting construction firm. That firm was involved with both the Millennium Park and Garage projects, which ran from 1998 to 2004, and also with the Modern Wing addition to the Art Institute,"—he pointed across the street at the contemporary, glass-walled building—"which project broke ground in 2005. A Russian lock, plus a construction company, plus Paulos's having received localised orders...taken in combination with the appearance and disappearance of 'Jacob Wocjek', who had clear access to every area of the Institute...So you see? This key was the...key." He frowned at his own shoddy phrasing.

"Brilliant," Greg commented; Sherlock's eyes went straight to John, who simply returned a small smile and nod.

They had, by this point, almost reached the nearer of two small limestone-sheathed structures that provided pedestrian access to the car park below ground. The detective paused next to the building to provide them with one more elaboration.

"The full finishing details for the entrance and exit routes would have been handled by a well-planted subcontractor, rather than the project's main construction crews. So, I'm not certain where in the car park we will actually find the keyhole. Some details in the plans, like the entrances, weren't shown—probably to make Crannock's additions less obvious. As well, some added details seem to be afterthoughts put in to utterly confuse the issue; for instance, diagrams of the specialised power feed lead illogically back to terminate in the direction of Cloud Gate."

Greg wrinkled his nose as he brushed a fat snowflake off it. "What gate?"

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes, and gestured vaguely at the park behind his left shoulder. "The big metal bean."

"Oh, right." The DI grinned. "So this keyhole we're searching out..."

"Will be round, about six millimetres in diameter. It will appear similar to the hole for a rivet or screw, but it will go much deeper..." Crouching suddenly, he cast around below an angled stand of manicured trees alongside the walkway. "Here," he said, selecting thick twigs and passing one to each of his companions. "For testing depth."

Feeling slightly surreal, John accepted his twig solemnly. "Uh, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John, I've taken care of that. You shan't be unarmed. Inside," his partner murmured quietly, sweeping past through the door Greg held open.

 _Mind reading again...God..._ He fought to keep his face neutral as he passed Greg and entered the small elevator lobby; he was beginning to suspect that Sherlock was simply toying with him.

 

.

 

Once they were inside, away from the cold and wind, John wondered why Sherlock had held them up outside to speak; the reason became abundantly clear, however, when they descended into the car park proper. It was not a quiet place, and certainly not conducive to detailed conversation. Within the walls of the enclosed underground space, a massive air handling system threw a constant roaring from giant vent panels; the cacophony only got worse, as they approached the nearest side wall.

Sherlock had timed their visit perfectly: the car park wasn't empty, of course, but it was mostly devoid of moving traffic. The few cars or other pedestrians that filtered through would be easy enough to see coming, John supposed.

They all set to it, then, spreading out to examine the walls, but staying just close enough that they could still shout to each other for attention. John took a step back and eyed the section of concrete in front of him critically. _All right, it's unlikely to be out of reach, and there aren't going to be any obvious handles. So the key itself is likely the initial leverage point to open a panel. That means it wouldn't be too low, either. And it probably won't be in a location without any seams in the panels or the concrete, because it'd be hard to hide a moving piece without a seam._ He looked to his right, seeing that Greg was scanning thoroughly so far along his portion of wall, from top to bottom; John quickly ruled out the narrowed area he was searching, and moved along to the left to pass to a new section.

As he passed Sherlock, the tall man turned from his scrutiny of a seam and put out a hand to halt him. His lips shaped a word: "Here," practically inaudible in the echoing noise; reaching into his inside pocket, he pulled out a small object and passed it over.

John turned the heavy item around in his hands. It was a high-quality expandable baton, of the sort used by riot police and the like; not his first choice of a weapon to carry, by any means, but serviceable for multiple purposes, and effective in close quarters for non-lethal protection. And it was almost certainly a restricted item here in the States, one which Sherlock would have had to procure through illicit means. _Another contact from his hunting days here?_

"So that's what you were up to today," he said quietly, knowing that his flatmate could read his lips easily. He nodded once, a quick military snap of his chin, and slipped the compact truncheon into his jeans pocket. _I'd rather have my gun and he knows it, but he also knows I wouldn't want just any gun._ Nodding again, he raised his eyes and caught the other man's gaze still trained on his lips. He quirked them into a slight smile and deliberately slipped his tongue out to wet them, enjoying the slight but definite reaction that prompted, before turning to continue to the next section of wall.

 

.

 

The three of them progressed around the garage quickly, with only a few interruptions necessitating the appearance of casually walking toward a vehicle; it didn't take Greg long to figure out the logical criteria the other two were already using for their search, and within about twenty-five minutes they were descending to the lower level of the car park.

In the relative quiet of the elevator, the three remained silent even though there was nothing preventing conversation. John studied his companions' expressions: Greg appeared determined, the set of his jaw and crease between his brows showing that he was far less excited about this task than he originally had been. Sherlock looked to be on edge, his shoulders tense and his fingers twitching spasmodically.

The search was wearing on the doctor, as well—he was tiring quickly of the car park's noise levels, and mediocre lighting added to the inevitable stink of cars to set a sharp-edged headache pounding in his skull.

 

.

 

Nearly halfway around the perimeter of the much larger second level, John tested yet another rivet hole. _What is this, then, number six hundred and seventy something?_ He gritted his teeth on a disappointed sigh as the little twig stopped no deeper than his fingernail.

Just then, there was a faint shout to his left. Sherlock was waving him over triumphantly; turning to his right, John gave his own shout and wave to get Greg's attention. They both strode over to join the detective, who stood about half a metre to the left of one of the massive, loud ventilation panels; they reached him just as he slid the strange key carefully into a hole hidden in a seam just below waist level. Sherlock turned to them, his eyes alight with anticipation, and slowly engaged the key with a definite theatrical air.

Greg spotted the action's effect right away, and moved around to John's other side to grasp the vent panel, which had popped outward slightly. Feeling along the edge, his fingers located a groove, and he pulled; the tall section of louvered metal moved outwards, revealing a dark passage beyond.

Squinting into the onrushing air, John thought he made out a faint glow in the distance—as if there was a light just around a corner. Smiling, he clapped the DI on the back as Sherlock clicked on a pocket flashlight and played it around the walls of the hidden tunnel.

Greg's mouth moved, but standing practically inside the ventilation shaft as they were, his words were entirely lost. He stepped past John into the entrance, reaching into the breast pocket of his overcoat and slipping out a slim penlight; he twisted it on with a grin.

John frowned and placed one hand on a shoulder of each of his companions, stopping them both from advancing headlong into the darkness. When they turned to face him, he gave Greg a raised eyebrow and looked pointedly down at his own watch. "You have a prior engagement, don't you?" he asked, even though he knew damn well only Sherlock would be able to tell what he was saying.

Quirking a there-and-gone smile—probably at the use of the word "engagement"—Sherlock then turned toward the other man, moving around so that he stood close at John's side. Whipping out his phone, he typed out a text message with flashing fingers, and John was able to read it on his screen as he sent it off:  
 **I clearly recall the argument of 18 March 2005, and its consequences. You may wish to avoid beginning a similar pattern of behaviour quite so soon. -SH**

Greg's clear moue of exasperation, when he realised he needed to get out his own mobile, quickly changed as he read the message. His eyes widened, then hardened; his jaw worked furiously a moment as a surprising parade of emotions crossed his face, and he tapped out his own text.  
 **You led me to believe you were unconscious that night, you git. -GL**

John watched, curious, as Sherlock nodded with a strangely compassionate expression. His fingers moved again, a little more slowly.  
 **Easier to feign continued stupor than to have the conversation you wanted then. I barely knew you, Lestrade. -SH**

The two men locked eyes in the dim light of the tunnel entrance— _This must have something to do with Tracy,_ John thought—and then Greg said something inaudible to Sherlock, his face serious. He turned aside in the passageway, allowing the detective to move on ahead, and stared down at his feet for a second before moving to exit the tunnel.

On his way past, Greg reached out and gripped John's arm briefly. With a tight smile, he passed over his penlight; nodding after Sherlock's already-retreating figure, he gave the doctor a look with clear meaning: _I'm off. You be careful, and watch his back._

John nodded, waving goodbye as he turned to hurry after his friend before the bobbing beacon of his flashlight was gone completely.

 

\-----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If your interest was piqued by those text messages, you may be interested to take a little detour to the short story that explains them:  
> [A Bag Of Peas](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1156227)


	26. Anna - January 2 - 6:15 PM

  
**26\. Anna - January 2 - 6:15 PM**   


.

 

**Oh geez, the line in here is really long tonight. Did I say 6:30 for dinner? Better make it 7:00! *A***

Anna shifted from foot to foot, peering forward at the line that stretched halfway down the miscellaneous housewares aisle of the Walgreens. It appeared that there was only one pharmacist working at the counter ahead, and he was busy explaining various contraindications to a grizzled older gentleman. The customer certainly seemed to be hard of hearing; she could practically hear every word of the instructions from where she stood.

**That's all right love, I wasn't hungry yet anyway. The boys didn't need me to hang around, so I've already caught a cab over to the restaurant... -GL**

**Well then, whatever are you going to do with yourself? *A***

**Oh, I don't know...there are a few shops near here, right? I haven't found Molly a good gift yet. -GL**

**Near the restaurant we chose? LOL, yeah, there are shops. Some pretty interesting ones to the south of there, though possibly not Molly's type... *A***

**If I'm remembering correctly which street this place is on, we drove up past those shops yesterday. Cheeky miss!! -GL**

When the third text alert sounded, Anna gave a little giggling snort at Greg's response to her mention of the lingerie and sex shops. The woman standing ahead of her in line turned and gave her a pointedly disapproving look. Biting her lip on a smile, Anna turned away slightly and thumbed the volume control on her phone down to "vibrate".

 _Maybe he'll visit one of those shops anyway, ha!_ She found herself wildly distracted, for a moment, by the thought of what sort of souvenir her Detective Inspector might choose for _her_ in such a place; turning further aside to hide the blush it was causing, she noticed the selection of cool mist humidifiers on the shelf to her right.

"Oh!" she said softly, under her breath. She remembered she'd been complaining a few nights ago about the dry air in the bedroom...and these were good prices, too. Studying the options and making a choice, she shifted the two bags of peanut butter chocolates she'd already picked out under her arm, and pulled down a box just as the line finally shifted one position forward.

 

.

 

What seemed like a small eternity later, Anna finally had her blood pressure medication in hand. She checked the time as the cashier rang up her purchases, and then found herself awkwardly juggling her bags, change and phone. Rather than shift the humidifier box she'd already picked up to the other arm in order to access her purse, she resorted to expediency, and tucked her phone into the fuzzy neckline of her black angora top.

 _Amanda always insists it's a bad habit, but sometimes, there's simply no better place to put it!_ she told herself, nudging the phone to rest securely under her bra strap. Pulling her purple knit scarf back into place, she made her way out to the parking lot behind a slow-moving couple. Lightly falling snow tickled her ears as she placed her purchases in the back seat.

Somewhat relishing the freedom and privacy of _not_ acting as anyone's chauffeur for the first time in ten days, and not having to keep up a conversation, she turned the radio on at a good volume. When the Clash's "Rock the Casbah" came on, she sang along loudly and unashamedly as she drove.

 

.

 

The small restaurant she and Greg had agreed to try was located in a neighbourhood a bit further away from her frequent haunts. When Anna reached it, she had to circle the block twice to find an open space to park. There was a fair amount of foot traffic on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, but much less movement on the side streets; she finally located a metered space on the adjoining street and slipped her Honda in.

 _Not too shabby—I'm here almost exactly when I said I would be,_ she thought as she checked the clock on her dashboard: six fifty-eight. She made final adjustments to her parking alignment, then turned off the car and gave her hair a quick once-over in the mirror. Actually meeting Greg here, rather than going together, made this feel more like a real date than almost anything they'd yet done together in the States. Smiling girlishly at her reflection, she dug cinnamon lip gloss from her bag, and applied a shiny layer before opening her door and stepping out.

Her car keys hung on a short embroidered lanyard; she looped it about one wrist as she stepped around to the sidewalk. Reaching into the opposite coat pocket, she collected the handful of quarters she'd stashed there. _I have enough for an hour and forty-five minutes; that should be plenty,_ she thought, counting up the change in her palm and approaching the parking meter.

She blew a snowflake off her cheek and began methodically inserting the coins. _One...two..._

"Don't move."

A rough voice spoke next to her ear at the same moment she felt startling pressure at her waist; in the next second a strong, gloved hand clamped over her mouth. Anna gasped against it, dropping the quarters and instinctively beginning to struggle.

"I said, _don't_ move, girl! You'll regret it," growled the man quietly—she felt his hot breath against her ear and neck. He pressed harder against her side, and she finally registered the distinct point of the contact. _Oh god, is that a knife?_

Shuddering slightly, she forced herself to stillness.

"Better. Now, we're gonna turn around, nice and easy, and you're gonna open your car door. You understand?"

She nodded, a tiny, jerky movement against the crushing pressure at her lips. Then they turned together, scuffing slightly on the snowy sidewalk, and she got her first, indistinct glimpse of her attacker reflected in the passenger window.

_My height. Big, wide. Knit cap, shaggy hair under—Blond? It is a knife. Oh god. A big one, fuck!_

The man noticed her pausing to stare, and gave her a rough little shove at the car. _"Now."_

Eyes watering, she reached forward and pulled the door open. The automatic light spilled brightness out to the sidewalk, throwing pale flashes on the eddies of snowflakes caught in the movement.

"Your keys, throw them in. And your purse."

She did so, hands shaking. The handbag landed on the seat with a muffled thump, spilling her lip gloss and compact from the front pocket.

The strong arm moved from her side; she felt a line of hard coolness press under her chin. "Coat too. Do it."

One frantic tear spilled over as she moved to comply, sucking a reedy breath in through her nose. The man held his blade steady at her throat while she worked out of the sleeves, keeping her head as still as she could; seconds later, the coat was flung in over the centre console.

"Quiet, now." The knife remained at her neck, urging her a step back, and his other hand moved away, reaching out to slam the car door. He then shoved her forwards again, this time bracing her up against the side of her vehicle with a knee.

 _This can't be happening. No, no..._ Knife and hand moved away, and she was too stunned and disoriented to take the brief opportunity to cry out as her scarf was pulled off roughly. He then used it to quickly tie her hands behind her. The main street seemed impossibly far away in that moment; her world constricted, at once, down to the blade at her side and the voice in her ear as she was pulled around to face away down the silent tree-lined avenue.

The stocky stranger's body was a line of heat along her back and right side, in sharp contrast to the chill blowing through her fuzzy top. He threw his left arm around her shoulders, placing himself slightly behind her to obscure the view of her bound hands as he pushed her into motion. In a moment of panicked clarity, she could see herself in her mind's eye, as if her awareness hovered between the distantly spaced streetlights. She knew without question that they would appear to be a loving couple, snuggled close, to anyone who happened to look down the darkened street at their retreating backs.

"Wh-what do you...?" she managed hoarsely, whimpering as the knife pressed tighter into her side.

"Hush! We're gonna go somewhere more private, and then you'll tell me exactly what I need to know. Won't you." He laughed, then, a vicious scraping sound against her ear.

Biting her lip against a frightened moan, she kept moving. _What do I do? I can't—I can't think! Oh, fuck!_

Snow caught in her lashes and fell wetly into her exposed neckline as she stumbled woodenly down the sidewalk. The bruising grip on her shoulder eventually pushed and turned her to the left, forcing her into the narrow alley near the end of the block, where a car waited half in the shadows. As they approached it she frantically tried to determine make and model, but patchy snow over the back bumper and license plate prevented her from gleaning much information. _Justin knows any car on sight, always has, god I wish I'd shared his obsession when we were kids,_ she thought, with a lightheaded sense of detachment from herself. All she could tell for sure was it looked old— _at least ten years old?_ She squinted to make out the vehicle's dark colour, muddy looking under one flickering orange sodium light. Finally, as they were almost upon it, she realised _it's green,_ and she shuddered violently in her captor's grip as image upon image of the same dark green car stacked and overlapped one upon another in her head. _Oh god! No, no,_ "no, please...!"

The man's knife hand moved upward once more to silence her and freeze her in place, and he released her shoulder; seconds later a wad of fabric was shoved roughly into her mouth, and the trunk popped open in front of her. "In you go!"

Anna sobbed helplessly around the gag as she made the awkward movement and was shoved down into the small space. Her head knocked back against the rough carpeting, and she looked up to get her first good look at the man's face just as he began to bring the lid down.

He grinned down at her viciously, and his features burned themselves into her brain—piggish dark eyes, badly healed broken nose, crooked teeth—just before his scraping laugh followed her into total darkness.

Struggling against complete panic, she squeezed her eyes shut—then stilled, holding her breath, as she heard muffled speaking outside. _Is someone else there? ...No. No, he's making a phone call?_ She strained to make out some of the words.

"Yo, Benny, I need a place...deal with someone. Yeah...still got a key to get in...old Echo Packing building? Yeah, that's perfect...wait for you, hurry up."

The car lurched underneath her, then, and she felt the vibration of the driver's door slamming and the engine starting. Seconds later, she was pitched forward onto her face by inertia as he pulled away and sped up.

Anna rolled further forward when the vehicle changed direction and speed again and again, panting heavily through her nose and nearly gagging at the overpowering chemical scent of the cheap automotive carpet that rubbed coarsely against her cheek. She tugged at the scarf— _Mrs Hudson's gift to me,_ she thought wildly—and felt the scrape of her charm bracelet digging in hard between her wrists. Tears dripped into the hair that clung across her face. _Oh, Greg! What do I do?_

Just as the car swung around another corner, she was startled by an unexpected sensation—a brief rhythmic vibration at her chest. _My phone! A text message! Oh my god, I forgot I put it there, I can't believe he missed it!_ Whimpering and keening in the back of her throat, she renewed her efforts.

 _Think. Think! Isn't there—isn't there supposed to be something inside car trunks now, for this kind of thing? Like, a glow in the dark lever, or cord? Something!_ Still pulling hard against the scarf, she stretched her neck around, as far as she could in all directions, but saw only unbroken darkness. _This car must be too old for that. Shit!_ Her continuing struggles met with no success, and she grunted in frustration. _Even if there was a release, it would be no good to me gagged and bound, would it?_

The phone buzzed again between her breast and the cold trunk floor, in a longer repeated pattern this time: a phone call. Fresh tears leaked to the carpet as she screamed silently for the call she couldn't answer. _Greg, Greg! I'm here, oh please help me, please..._

When the vibration of the ringing stopped, she felt even more bereft and alone.

There was a long pause, and then one last pulse signalled the voicemail notification. Squeezing her eyes shut against the stuffy darkness, she imagined Greg's gentle, gravel-edged voice in her ear, and what he might have been saying on that recording. _"Anna, sweet, just wondering where you are. You're a bit late for dinner, love! Everything okay? I love you..."_

With a desperate, helpless sob building painfully in her chest, and the memory of Greg's voice echoing in her head, Anna summoned all her strength and wrenched her right arm upward as hard as she possibly could—and she was rewarded, finally; the hand-knit fabric stretched and gave _just_ enough, and the bracelet gouged at her right wrist as her hand pulled free.

 _Yes!_ Clenching and releasing her fingers to regain some circulation, she reached up and extracted the gag, coughing and drawing in a long, full breath at last. The car lurched over a jarring set of bumps— _railroad tracks?_ —as she retrieved her phone from her bra.

She felt around until she found the unlock button, and squinted at the sudden, bright light of the screen through eyes blurred by tears; with shaking fingers, she typed out a hurried text message...

 

\-----

 


	27. John - January 2 - 6:20 PM

  
**27\. John - January 2 - 6:20 PM**  


.

 

"Slow down! Dammit!"

John sighed. _I can barely hear myself think, and I somehow think he's going to hear me when he's haring off that far ahead? Come on._ He'd found a handhold on the inside of the louvered panel, and pulled it almost entirely closed behind himself after Greg had taken his leave; the small amount of light that had filtered in when they'd opened it up was now gone. The penlight Greg had left him was better than nothing in the dark duct passage, but wasn't enough to really tell him if there were any obstructions or trip hazards; trusting in fate and Sherlock, he hopped into a cautious jog to catch up.

He came to a wall about thirty metres back and turned a corner, following the bouncing glow of the other man's light. The blasting noise, rushing air and near-total darkness were disorienting in combination, and he came upon his companion sooner than expected; Sherlock had apparently stopped to examine another intersection in the tunnel. Before his mind could process the slight shadow, John ran up against him at speed, his arms instinctively flinging around the taller man as they both stumbled and fell back against the wall.

For a second or two, the near-tumble felt more like a hug; John's surprised cry was muffled into the warmth of Sherlock's neck. As he clutched into the familiar lapels to regain his balance, the other man's arm caught him up behind his back, steadying him with an open palm.

Once they were righted, Sherlock moved his right arm—leaving the left exactly where it was—and flicked his flashlight upward to illuminate both their faces. His expression was a fluid, shifting mix of annoyance and affection as he made a pointed gesture with his chin, directing the doctor's attention toward the wall at his right side. What had appeared to be an intersection was more of a shallow, blank alcove, apparently terminating in a featureless plane of concrete.

 _There,_ Sherlock mouthed—or said, or shouted; John couldn't tell anymore, he was beginning to feel as if no sound had ever been but the roar and push of those massive, invisible fans—and then the detective pulled away from their unintentional embrace and leant his shoulder into the back wall of the alcove.

It appeared, for a moment, that Sherlock would be unable to shift the panel; John half-lunged to throw his weight alongside his partner's before stopping himself. _If it's meant to move as Sherlock seems to think, then it's got to be movable by one person. Otherwise, what's the point of the passage?_ Sure enough, after an interminable minute spent shifting his point of applied contact, his friend finally hit upon the correct leverage and the alcove swung slowly open into a softly blue-lit hallway. Reaching back quickly with one shadowy hand, he tugged John to move past him into the newly revealed area, then immediately set his weight upon the other side of the thick, reinforced door to shift it back into place.

As the opening to the duct passage was slowly closed, the noise level was reduced, and finally blocked out almost completely along with the pressing wind. John slumped back against the wall of the new space, overwhelmed by the sudden lack of external noise and the persistent ringing in his ears that seemed almost as loud. _Talk about a deterrent to being accidentally found,_ he thought dizzily. _Nobody in their right mind would choose to walk this far into these ducts if they didn't know what was here._

Sherlock joined him at the wall, shoulder to shoulder. His arm brushed up and down subtly against John's with each heaving breath he took, betraying the exertion of moving the heavy door. John glanced up in the dim light—small blue LED bulbs were spaced out along the ceiling of the hallway—and stretched fingers out to snag the cuff of his coat, urging the taller man to come along as he slid to the floor.

They sat there together for a time, individually lost in their own thoughts as their ears slowly recovered. John tried to keep his mind on the case, and their reason for being there, rather than dwelling on the tinnitus that would likely persist in bothering him through the next day. He imagined Hammond using his key to access this secret area. _Were meetings held down here? Or did he have the key for some other reason?_ He pictured the lanky gallery owner placing earplugs in his ears— _that would've been nice_ —and making his way in, probably much more quickly than the two of them had; knowing the correct path through the tunnels, and where exactly to press on the swivelling panel, would make the process much easier.

 

.

 

Eventually Sherlock judged their rest period long enough; tucking his phone into his pocket, he tapped his friend on the knee as he levered his lean frame upright. "This hallway should eventually turn and run south toward the Modern Wing," he said, his voice still strange and distant-sounding in John's ears.

"Right," John replied, standing stiffly.

They moved in step beneath the blue pinpricks of light, throwing amorphous shadows under their feet as they moved through the occasional turns and jogs of the passage. It all seemed a bit unreal to John, a bit hazy and dreamlike; the sense of surreality persisted when they came to the steel door at the end of the long, twisting hallway, and the oddly shaped electronic control pad on the wall beside it.

John slid its grey plastic cover upwards to reveal a large, flat pad of rubberised keys; as the cover clicked into the open position, a small white light illuminated the buttons, removing the blue cast from the tiny lights above. Each rectangular button was printed with a miniature image, rather than a number or symbol: squinting closely, he recognised about four of the twenty as small details from famous paintings. The other images were almost certainly also well-regarded works, but they were more obscure than his rudimentary knowledge of art history could stand up to.

Sherlock leaned in, studying the tiny pictures carefully. "Ahh, I see! Wait." He straightened, turning his face toward the blank concrete wall; a strange expression passed over his features, and his long fingers twitched at his sides. After a long, silent minute, he roused himself. "Jane Avril, Holofernes, Hopper's self-portrait, Olympia, Whistler's Mother."

His mouth falling open, John leaned in again to look closely. "How would you know that? It looks like these keys aren't worn enough to deduce from."

"Eidetic memory. It was in Hammond's computer files; once I knew what was here, I could go back and look for the most current permutation of the code. Most of these paintings were in among the files I let Anna sort through the other day; I had, of course, skimmed quickly over them first. Come, John, you _know_ this about me already. Why do you think I so rigidly maintain my Mind Palace? And why do you think I delete so very much?"

"But..." He furrowed his brow and thought back. "No, you've never really explained that to me. I mean, I know your memory is good, of course. And you've told me about how the mind palace works. Still..."

Sherlock sighed. "To this day, I can still transcribe the entirety of Allegri's Miserere, including side notes on which congregation members had distracting coughs during which measures, from the Good Friday service Grandmère brought me along to when I was eleven years old. Had I wished to retain it, I could remember each page of the newspaper I read two weeks ago, in enough detail to dictate it aloud; I deleted most of it last week, of course. I _hate_ the way the extra information clutters my head, so I regularly undertake deletion or moderation of anything I can reasonably confirm I will have no use for."

"Moderation?"

He rolled his neck, scanning his eyes across the blue-lit ceiling. "Think of it as...washing over fresh watercolours. I blur the edges somewhat, removing the finest details of less important memories; unlike deletion, I retain enough of the broad scope that I know what might be there if I need it later. Most helpful for things I can reference or relearn, if it comes necessary to know them once again."

John chewed at his cheek thoughtfully: this explained a few of Sherlock's quirks a bit in hindsight, but something still wasn't sitting right. "Yet you remembered all the tiresome specifics on Brewster. Everything from his phone number to where he takes his daughter at New Year's. And you told me yesterday, you never planned on needing to come back to Chicago."

A brief frown passed over the detective's fine features. "I had to change my habits, when I was on my own. Too many situations turned dangerous, too many cover identities I had to juggle; I quickly discovered that I couldn't trust myself to delete anything, on the off chance I would miss a detail that would be crucial." He glanced up, and then away. "I didn't have _you_ there looking out for me."

 _Well, you should have had._ "And you didn't delete any of those things once you returned to London?"

The frown returned and deepened. "I _attempted_ to. Repeatedly." For a second, it looked almost as if the other man wanted nothing more than to curl away from John, and retreat down the hallway.

Surprised at Sherlock's distressed reaction, the doctor decided to let the matter drop. _For now._ "So," he said, casually, "shall we, then?"

"Ah. Yes, of course." Leaning forward with a small shake of his head, Sherlock tapped out the sequence of fragments: a blond woman wearing a bold bonnet—blood spurting around the sword beheading a bearded man—an ear under the brim of a brown fedora—a delicate gold-slippered foot and creamy ankle—the solemn profile of the old woman's jaw.

There was a tiny beep and click, and the door popped ajar. John cautiously pushed it inwards, revealing a hall that appeared far more residential. Here, the lighting was a soft golden glow thrown up against the eggshell-painted ceiling from a shallow cornice rail; the walls, while still concrete, were painted in wide vertical stripes of subtle cream and beige, and the floor was tiled in warm-hued ceramic. It was a stark contrast to the industrial, almost alien atmosphere of the outer tunnel.

"I haven't seen any cameras this whole time," remarked John softly, as he gestured for his friend to precede him.

"He's lived here a number of years now, and has never been disturbed," Sherlock murmured, flicking his eyes back and forth across the walls. "He's got great confidence that the likelihood of any unwanted person getting past both the keyed entrance and the coded one are incredibly slim."

"Which, of course, they are unless you're Sherlock bloody Holmes," he replied with a soft smile.

 

.

 

Just as they were about to emerge from the tiled hallway into the brighter light of the presumed living area, the detective froze suddenly, throwing out an arm to flatten them both against the wall.

John stiffened against the arm across his chest, watching with narrowed eyes as his flatmate edged his head around the corner and pulled it back quickly. It was then that he heard what had brought the other man to a pause: faint strains of music, minimalist strings.

Tilting his elegant neck and bringing his mouth downward to graze the shell of John's ear, Sherlock spoke very softly: "I appear to have miscalculated, John. It would seem Arthur Crannock is in residence this evening."

At that, the shorter man turned and lifted his chin to whisper back; Sherlock adjusted his head in return so that John's lips gently brushed his earlobe. "I thought you said you'd expected him out tonight, if he was actually using the space at all?"

"Yes; that would be the miscalculation. _Obviously."_ How he managed to inject sarcastic venom into the barely audible words was a mystery.

"Well, what do we do then?" whispered John.

Rather than respond, his partner brought out his mobile and composed a text message.  
**Have confirmed location of Crannock's headquarters. Art C in residence. Request assistance ASAP re: arrest. See your email for best access routes. -SH**

He paused, then jerked the phone down in frustration. "No signal, of course," he breathed. "No matter, it will retry continuously until it's sent. Nothing for it but to keep him occupied until Garvey can assist us."

"So we're going in."

A quick nod and a glance his way clearly signalled: _ready?_

John returned a steady look, and palmed the baton in his pocket. _Lead on._

 

.

 

Having considered the available options, Sherlock had apparently decided upon straightforward surprise. Squaring his shoulders and striding confidently into the living area, he pitched his deep voice to carry. "Arthur Crannock!"

There was an immediate flurry of motion from a small sofa near the centre of the room. John glanced around quickly, taking in only the most important details of the eclectically furnished space. _Open plan, doors to left likely bedroom and bath, staircase in open doorway behind and to the right, larger staircase at the far end._ He carefully advanced to one side, stepping in front of a tall coat tree as he instinctively placed himself in position to flank the wiry, dishevelled older man who jumped up to approach them.

Disturbed, manically bright eyes flicked back and forth between the two intruders, as Crannock spluttered in his shock. "Who are you? How are you here? How do you know that name? Get out!"

John watched from the corner of his eye as his partner quickly soaked in the details of the underground apartment; in a matter of seconds, he'd apparently found whatever clue he was looking for. He puffed up pridefully and dramatically, obviously preparing to launch into some observation or accusation—his goal being to keep the man occupied—but before Sherlock could so much as state his own name, Crannock's face twisted into a crazed rictus of distrustful anger and he ran at them.

With a shout, the man threw a punch at John, which connected glancingly as he ducked to one side; in the next moment Crannock lunged, grabbing a sturdy carved walking stick from the umbrella stand under the coat tree. He spun as Sherlock advanced on him from behind, and swung the staff viciously into the detective's gut before taking off across the long, open room at a dead run.

Sherlock gasped, doubling over, "Hurry, John! He surely has...escape route at ground level...overrides for security systems..." Even folded in on himself and wheezing, he was still attempting to follow Crannock himself; he lurched forward in a shuffling, awkward gait.

John called out over his shoulder as he overtook his partner. "Running about a darkened museum at night? Little déjà vu here, Sherlock!"

"I'll...catch up! Go on!" By the time Sherlock grunted out these words, he had fallen far behind.

John leapt up the half-lit stairs two at a time, craning his neck up and around at each landing to track his target. The familiar fizz of adrenalin in his veins sharpened his senses, and a tight, predatory grin pulled at his lips.

 

.

 

The small door at the top of the staircase was already shut by the time John reached the top landing. Pushing through to emerge into one of the museum's central stairwells at the main level, he shortly found himself jogging past shadowy Greek and Roman galleries that surrounded the view to an enclosed courtyard below.

Turning to the left in response to some instinct he couldn't quite identify, John passed through the wide entrance into the Modern Wing area; here, the walls on two sides were entirely comprised of glass and steel. The orange glow of Chicago's snowy sky filtered in and made the two-storey high central space seem brightly lit in comparison to the inner portion of the museum, although there were no lights on. A modern sculpture extended from one end of the long, airy hall to the other: a massive interconnected series of bright resin, wood and metal pieces suspended overhead by wires under the open ceiling's steel beams. Reminiscent of a snake or an abstracted Chinese dragon, it sported angular protrusions similar to horns along its colourful length.

John paused to catch his breath in the doorway, and scanned the gallery as his eyes adjusted to the new light. He caught motion from the corner of his eye—Crannock was scurrying up to the second level, his feet briefly visible between the open risers of the two-level staircase as he ascended.

"Stop there!" John exclaimed, putting on a fresh burst of speed that brought him to the bottom stair as the other man passed the landing. He'd pulled the baton from his pocket as he clambered up from the basement, and now he flung it open at the apex of his own turn on the landing, with a split-second mental frown in its direction. He hadn't truly expected to need it, of course; he knew that Sherlock had done his best on short notice to ensure his colleague was armed, but he hadn't done much work with this sort of weapon in many years. As a matter of fact, since the consulting detective's return in June, the various cases they'd taken that ended in confrontation hadn't come to all that much in the way of hand-to-hand combat. His skills were, regrettably, a bit rusty.

On the upper floor, Arthur Crannock stopped in the centre of the walkway, snapping around to face his pursuer with chest heaving and teeth bared. "You'll not take me!" he screamed, bringing the army doctor to a startled pause; _he really is a nutter,_ realised John, hesitating just slightly at the wild desperation and fear in the other man's eyes.

Tossing wisps of greying hair from his pinched face, Crannock suddenly lunged forward and swept the heavy walking stick in a wide arc. In the dim light, John misjudged the extension length of his unfamiliar weapon, and as he tried to block the heavy blow, it sent the metal truncheon clattering to the pale hardwood floor. He tried to sidestep out of range, but Crannock's return swing caught him _just_ so, and he was close enough to the railing at that point that he found himself overbalanced. The railing was of a doubled style, consisting of smooth panels of glass and widely spaced vertical floor-to-ceiling rods, standing about two hand-spans outside of a wooden handrail; as the doctor teetered backward, Crannock shoved into him hard with the butt of the stick.

Letting out a wordless yell, John flung out an arm and grasped frantically at one of the tall rods. It was just enough to turn him as he fell, allowing his other arm to come around and grab the glass barrier rather than sending him completely over head-first, but it wrenched his shoulder badly as he caught and hung.

"No!"

The distressed shout rang out after his own, echoing from somewhere off to his right; Sherlock was running out onto the second-floor gallery from the direction of a small café area with elevators.

Gripping the edge of the railing tightly, John turned his face into the glass and struggled to pull himself higher as his partner pounded up the walkway toward him—and kept on running straight past him, shattering his faint sense of relief.

"Agh! Sherlock?!"

"Hold on! I've got—"

"Can't, fuck," he grunted, gritting his teeth.

"Hold ON, John, I can stop him _getting away_ if I just—"

As Sherlock bounded down the stairs and his deep, resonant voice moved further out of reach, the world narrowed harshly around John: all of existence became the tearing, straining sensation in his fingers, the pull in his bad shoulder throwing hot pain all down the side of his body, the pulse pounding in his ears as time slowed second by second.

 _No,_ he thought desperately, _he'll never get back up here in time, I can't hold out this long..._ One long, strangled cry clawed its way from his throat. "Sher-LOCK!!"

A strident call came from somewhere below. "I'm coming!"

In the next moment, John's slow-motion senses registered a sudden, sharp noise and a gust of air thrown across his straining back; he watched disbelievingly from the corner of his eye as the large, segmented sculpture began to fall in a riotous wave of colour. There was a horrible, breathless second of silence; then a resounding series of crashes shook the air, mingled with a sharp yell echoing from the far end of the hall.

"He's down, John, drop now!"

The shouted words made no sort of sense to him. "What??"

"I can break your fall, trust me!"

Unbidden, the memory of his own voice choked him: _'No, Sherlock, I don't trust you!'_ Aloud, he gasped, "You can't! Too—high!"

"John, _please!_ Trust me!"

His left hand slipped, then, on the harsh edge of the glass pane, leaving him with just the bare tips of bloodless fingers supporting the line of fire that coursed through his shoulders. Liquid electric fear shot up his spine, and his breath came short and hard; he panted, "N-no..."

Sherlock called up to him again, more softly, his voice cracking under the strain of his words. "I _love_ you! John! Let go!"

With a final yell, John lost his grip...and the sensation of falling was like the worst of his dreams in reverse: a single gasping heartbeat to anticipate pain before the impact, which was somehow both worse and better than he'd expected.

 

.

 

Groaning, John opened his eyes to silence and half-dark.

"Sh-Sherlock!" He twisted his head to see the man pinned underneath him. His eyes were closed, his head resting motionless on the wood floor.

Even as he ran quickly and systematically through his awareness of himself— _ribs bruised, one maybe broken, contusions left hip, left ankle sprained or worse_ —John was already struggling to quickly throw his weight to the right side and get off of him. Wincing, he raised himself onto his knees and bent forward to touch the slack, unresponsive face.

It was incredibly easy to ignore his own pain while he threaded his numb fingers through dark curls, searching for blood. His raw throat tightened around an involuntary whine of fear; doing his best to barricade the pervasive image of the sidewalk away from his mind, he leaned in close and gripped the unconscious man's pale jaw.

"Sherlock, come on, _Sherlock_ —"

One shattering minute later, a tiny sliver of grey eyes was finally revealed to his searching gaze.

John became vaguely aware that he had been speaking continuously, a steady stream of muttered pleading and imprecations punctuated by the repetition of his partner's name, over and over like a prayer. When the flicker in Sherlock's eyelids failed to progress into further evidence of consciousness, he allowed his words to become more forceful.

"Look at me, Sherlock you bloody tosser, open your goddamn eyes; you don't get to _do_ this to me, not again— _Sherlock!"_

Clamping down on the trembling beginnings of a full-on panic attack, John actually failed to sense the movement when Sherlock's arm lifted. He cut off his impassioned mutterings with a gasp as long, cool fingers wove into the hair at the back of his neck, pulling his face down close.

"Shh."

"Oh God. You scared the piss out of me, you know that?"

Full lips pursed and Sherlock swallowed hard before responding, while his eyelids remained almost entirely closed. "Likewise."

"I—"

"Shh," repeated his partner, and he finally opened his crystalline eyes as he drew John forward into a gentle kiss. The doctor's own eyes began to flutter closed, but something in the intensity of Sherlock's expression arrested him; they gazed at each other, unfocused, cloudy blue merging into silver-grey in the shadowy hush, until a sharp jab of pain from John's ribs pushed rudely into his awareness and forced him to sit up.

At that, the sleuth's face made itself over into familiar detachment, and he moved to raise himself carefully onto his elbows. Looking behind him, he nodded and gestured across the rubble of the broken sculpture. "My tactic was successful, it appears; I suppose you should check on him."

John frowned and made no move to stand. "I have to say, I'm not entirely over the moon on your handling of the situation. It's an awful mess isn't it?"

"You'd rather I'd stopped to pull you up. Of course; I would have found that preferable as well. However, Arthur Crannock would have escaped the building, and we'd likely waste another week searching for him. The sacrifice of _one artwork_ is hardly my chief concern," he sniffed, fixing his flatmate with a challenging look that said, _this is not the time to begin an argument!_

Snapping his jaw shut indignantly, John shook his head and spoke the next question on his mind. "How did you manage to bring it down on him, anyway?"

"Your baton. You left it quite conveniently in my path; all I had to do was determine which wire to aim for when I threw it." He flashed a brief, smug smile as he pulled the mobile from his breast pocket. "Ah, look. My text to Garvey must have been finally sent when I came up from the basement. He's responded."

 

\-----

 


	28. Greg - January 2 - 7:05 PM

  
**28\. Greg - January 2 - 7:05 PM**  


.

 

Whistling cheerfully to himself—that Harry Connick Jr song from the previous night was still sticking pleasantly in his head—Greg walked down the street to the restaurant, coat collar turned up around his plaid muffler. Although he'd been disappointed to leave the excitement of the tunnel discovery, he'd occupied himself quite happily in his little bit of extra free time with browsing a couple of the shops: the more home-decoration-oriented ones to the north, not the tawdrier block of businesses he'd been joking about with Anna. The little bag he swung at his side came from a particularly lush little shop he'd found. _Handmade candles and herbal soaps. Perfect for two out of three of the ladies I have to buy for._ He grinned eagerly and patted his pocket, checking that the tiny box he'd purchased a few doors up was still there. _And that...I can't wait to see her face,_ he thought as he stepped up into the entry of the eatery Anna had chosen.

"How many?" greeted the young, dark-skinned hostess with a polite smile. She wore a name badge: Tanya.

"Two, but I'm pretty sure my girlfriend might already be here waiting for me," Greg answered, glancing at his watch. "About your height, brown hair, came in wearing a red coat?"

Tanya glanced over her shoulder at the half-full restaurant, furrowing her brow slightly. She fingered one of the narrow braids hanging over her shoulder and looked down to double-check her seating chart. "No, I'm sorry sir, we don't have anyone seated and waiting for their party right now."

"Oh, my mistake. She's likely just running behind."

"Would you like a table, in the meantime?"

He considered it for a second, then shook his head. "Nah, it'll probably be any minute. I'll just meet her outside, thanks."

Stepping back outside, he pulled out his phone and composed a text.  
**I'm here, are you still in line at the chemist's? Shall I go back in and get our table? -GL**

Greg whistled a few more bars of the jazz tune up into the fluffy falling snowflakes, pacing idly and aimlessly on the sidewalk.

_If I could give you more / I'd make the streets safe..._

He waited a minute or so, but there was no reply to his message.

His meandering took him out to the next street corner, and once he got there he did a double-take at the blue Honda he saw parked three cars back on the adjoining street.

_Wait, is that her car?_

Glancing down at his phone again, he crossed the one-way side street and walked down the sidewalk to get a better look at the vehicle. He squinted a little in the low light between widely spaced streetlamps, and eventually made out the license plate as he got closer: "ARS 0990"; definitely hers. _"Arse." We had a good laugh about that, the other day._

There was snow on the windscreen, nearly covering it in a fine layer. Greg looked around to judge the amount of snow falling; he estimated, _five minutes? Ten, tops?_ Stepping up to the parking meter, he frowned: a printed receipt still poked out of the slot, uncollected. He knew from watching Anna earlier in the week that the receipt was meant to be displayed inside the car, atop the dash. The meter display was counting time, and showed only six minutes left until it expired.

 _There's no way that's right. Dinner would take us at least an hour..._ Glancing down, he saw a series of scattered holes in the half inch of snow around the base of the meter post. He crouched on his heels and dug into the snow, retrieving a handful of loose change; some running gear in the back of his mind stuttered quietly to a stop as he stared blankly at the twelve silver coins in his palm.

Automatically, almost robotically, he stood and fed the coins into the slot, raising the timer to show a number that would fit their plans.

_Dinner._

_With Anna._

_An hour and a half, three dollars._

He pressed the green button, numbly.

When the second little paper slip fed out through the slot into his cold fingers, he sucked in a sudden, deep breath through his nose, as time restarted inside his head.

Whirling around, he looked back to Anna's vehicle. A dark silhouette was visible on the seat; he tested the handle apprehensively. The courtesy light came on when he pulled open the unlocked door, a cheery glow filling the car: he could see now that the dark shape was Anna's red wool coat, thrown half over the driver's seat, and her handbag lying open in front of him. He threw the partially crumpled parking slips up into the dash along with his little gift bag as he leaned into the vehicle, craning his neck to see whether she lay in the back seat— _no, just a box and some shopping bags!_

Greg's breathing sped as he straightened up, seeing a glint of light reflected from the floor: lunging, he retrieved Anna's key ring, half-hidden beneath the passenger seat. Switching the keys for the phone in his overcoat pocket, he quickly selected her name—first on the list—and pressed Send. He listened carefully for any answering sound inside the car, kneeling on the edge of the passenger seat and digging quickly through her bag with one hand, even while reciting an internal litany in syncopated time with the ringing close at his ear. _Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up!_

There was a click, and then Anna's cheerful Central Ohioan accent spoke to him. "Hey, this is Anna Clark—sorry you've missed me! Go ahead and leave a message; you know you want to. If you're lucky, I just might call you back!"

Fighting the building tightness in his throat, Greg stood to look up and down the sidewalk. "Anna, darling, where are you? I found your car, and all your things—oh god, Anna, please be all right. Please, call me and tell me you're all right! I—" He swallowed hard and cut himself off short, abruptly disconnecting the call. _No use babbling! Get it together, Lestrade,_ he ordered himself firmly. He clenched the device in a punishingly tight grip, taking as deep a breath as possible and forcing himself to let it out slowly.

Opening his eyes once more, he shifted his focus to the scene outside the car. He shut the door and fumbled with the key fob to lock it; stepping back, he now clearly saw the signs of the slight scuffle on the sidewalk—the large smudge in the dirty winter-spatter across the rear door and side window—the two sets of footprints leading away. His mind raced to analyze the prints through long-drilled habit. _Large feet, male, wide stance...he's forcing her to walk, angled slightly behind but pressed close. Probably threatening her with a weapon..._ A strangled, involuntary growl wrenched itself out of him; he was already jogging to follow the tracks, then running, without clear memory of having begun to move.

Sherlock's voice, in the café three days earlier, echoed unbidden in his head as he ran: _'She currently has what amounts to a twenty-four hour guard in Lestrade.'_

"Fuck, fuck!" _How could I have been so stupid? How could WE?_ He skidded and slipped, following the scuffed impressions of Anna's low-heeled boots into a dark alley at high speed.

Greg knew, even as he rounded the corner, that he wouldn't see her there. He knew, oh, he knew—and yet, the sight of the empty alleyway sent a breathless stab of pain through his chest. His stinging eyes took in the mass of scuffled footprints, ending between tyre tracks that pulled away and then disappeared into wet, puddled pavement ahead.

 _Can't call Sherlock and John, they're unavailable,_ he thought disjointedly, panting as he crouched in front of his last visible evidence of Anna. _Not London, can't call on Mycroft, have him work his creepy CCTV magic. Hell, I dunno if they even use cameras over here, in neighbourhoods like this—_ He ground the heel of his right palm into his eye, standing slowly and turning in place.

"I can't lose her, not my Anna, no, _no,"_ he muttered hoarsely, his shoulders so tense they were a fiery whipline of pain across his back. "Not like this. God, please, not like this!"

Greg raised his left hand—trembling, wrist corded with tension, knuckles white around the phone he still clutched—and began pulling up the number for Detective Garvey. But before he could make the call, his screen suddenly changed and a bright, cheerful trilling sound echoed in the alley.

The shock of it was such that his clenched hand spasmed open, and he dropped the mobile. Scrabbling for it in the wet slush of his own footprints, he shook it off and quickly swiped to read the message.

**I'm in a trunk grn car help me Greg!**

_"Christ,"_ he wheezed, relief warring with fresh fear to knock the breath out of his lungs. His knees wobbled slightly as he tapped out a response as fast as he could.  
**anna thank god, can you tell me any more, how cn I find you ?? -GL**

Sending off the text, he turned and began jogging back from the alleyway, one eye on his phone the whole way. _Cab? Or should I take her car? Fuck, I'd probably just get into a smash-up, that'd be a right mess on top of everything wouldn't it?_ Spurring himself to greater speed, he barreled up to the corner—not caring one whit that he badly startled a smoker outside the restaurant, nor what sort of hellish expression might be on his own face—and began scanning the traffic at the main road for cabs.

**heard tell some1 meet him @ old echo packing bldg, don't knw where that is A**

**hang in there love! ill get to you I promise -GL**

He waved excitedly at the first yellow cab he saw, but the driver passed him by. _Damn!_ Scowling, he hit the browser button and started a search for Echo Packing, bouncing on his toes with urgency as the progress bar ran.

 _Fuck!_ Glancing up from the phone, he saw another unoccupied cab approaching on his side of the street. Throwing caution to the wind, he gave a great waving lunge into the road. _Bugger nearly took out my kneecaps, but he stopped didn't he?_ he thought smugly, as he tapped on the yellow bonnet in thanks and hopped around to open the door.

"Name's Reggie. Where to?" asked the driver, a large-nosed man in his sixties, once he'd recovered slightly from the shock of nearly hitting his fare.

"I should have an address any second—argh!" Waving the phone a little bit at the bemused older man, he tossed his head in frustration. The first Google results were in, and they didn't look too promising.

"So, you don't know the address, huh. Got a name, or a neighborhood?"

Turning his eyes up to the cabbie, he swallowed. "You've lived around here a while, yeh?"

"All my life," Reggie said proudly. "Born and bred in the Windy City: over the years I've done a little bit of everything. I know just about everyplace around."

The cabbie's confident, kindly smile made Greg's lips twitch up slightly in response; it wasn't really a smile, so much as a determined grimace. "I need to get to the 'old Echo Packing building', fast as I can. I don't know anything more than that. Can you help me?" he asked hopefully.

The man burst into a hearty laugh, turning to face forward and pulling the vehicle from the curb. "Man, you're in luck! Would you believe, my older brother Marvin worked at Echo, back in the fifties? Times sure have changed! It must have been—"

"That's _great,_ Reggie, really—" he interrupted, breathlessly; "thanks—but I've gotta make a call; I'm an out-of-jurisdiction police detective, and a woman's life hangs in the balance right now, you got me? So if you could step on it, while I call for backup..."

Reggie met his eyes in the mirror, suddenly serious. "Sure, man, you got it. It's gonna take about twenty minutes, though."

Greg was already dialling, and nodded up at the driver to show he understood. "Detective Garvey! This is DI Greg Lestrade."

Chaz Garvey's voice was jovial and relaxed; he sounded like he was enjoying his night off duty, and a jumble of voices in the background said he wasn't doing it alone. "Good evening, Greg! To what do I owe the—"

"It's Anna. She's been _taken!"_

The younger man was suddenly alert. "What!" The phone was suddenly muffled, and Greg heard Garvey shout for quiet. "Tell me what you know!"

He answered in quick, choppy sentences, doing his best to keep a professional rein on his emotions; the compromise was that his voice became as strident and forceful as a critical briefing at the Yard, and it echoed harshly in the confines of the taxicab. "We were to meet at seven o'clock. She didn't show. I found her car and footprints. The guy had forced her away, probably with a weapon. All her belongings were left with the vehicle."

_"Jesus."_

"Look, I dunno how she managed it, but Anna kept her phone on her. She texted me three minutes ago from a car trunk, says she overheard she's being taken to the 'old Echo Packing building'. I'm en route now, but I'm pretty sure this guy must be your accomplice in the Hammond murder, so official help would be good..."

"Of course, yeah,"—there was rustling and the slamming of a door; apparently Garvey was quickly taking his leave of a gathering, and muttering hurriedly on his way out—"damn, should have found Peterson and asked him before I left...he's great with historical buildings, that's not one I remember..."

"Reggie! Tell the detective where to meet us?" Holding his mobile up toward the driver, he allowed the man to call out a neighbourhood and street intersection before returning it to his ear. "Got that? Right then. I'm about twenty minutes out. By my math this guy's got maybe seven, eight minutes on me, but my cab's rushing and he's likely to be driving cautiously. I'm ringing off now, Garvey, I need to be back in contact with her, all right?"

"You do that. I'll call in on-duty backup to join us nearby. Call me if there's any development."

Once the call was disconnected, the cabbie cleared his throat and spoke softly even as he swung hard around a turn. "So, where's your jurisdiction?"

"London," Greg replied tersely, counterbalancing himself against the lurching of the fast-moving vehicle out of easy habit as he typed.  
**On my way, Garvey and CPD too, are you still moving? -GL**

"And your lady in distress? She British too?"

"She's from Ohio originally."

**Still moving. He's catching a lot of red lights, seems like. Avoiding the highway maybe? *A***

Greg smiled tightly to see the return of her habitually perfect spelling and the starred signature she always insisted on typing out, rather than setting an automatic closer as he had. _That's my girl, keeping it together._

Reggie poured on the gas to speed them through an intersection at the tail end of a yellow light, then swooped the car over to take an onramp for the expressway. "There some long story behind this? You know the guy who's got 'er?"

"Not exactly. No. It's complicated." He shook his head, and thought about how best to simply sum up the TDK case. No matter that there was no reason to tell this stranger about it, something about Reggie's calm demeanour made him want to fill the silence with words, with answers: something to make all this make sense. "Anna was there when we uncovered this weird international group last October in London...like a small art crime syndicate, or summat. A few days ago, these two guys from the group murdered someone right in front of her house; turns out they think she knows the whereabouts of a man they're after, but they've got it all wrong. Garvey arrested one of them already, but..."

His stomach clenched. _I should never have let her out of my sight,_ he thought bleakly, rubbing fingers across the short hair at his nape before looking down to write a new message.  
**Could be 15 min or more til he gets there, I'm gaining on him. Tell me if anything changes, OK? -GL**

"Whoa. Well, don't you worry, Detective, we'll get you where you need to be." As if to prove his words, he poured on an extra burst of speed as he wove skilfully through of a knot of traffic.

**OK. I love you Greg. *A***

When they reached the next moderately clear stretch of road, Reggie looked up and met Greg's worried eyes again in the mirror. "So. How long have you known she's the one?"

His jaw dropped slightly in surprise at the perceptive question, and he answered honestly without thinking. "Since the day we found out she had to fly back home to Columbus, weeks early. I knew she was special, right; I knew we _fit_ together, but it wasn't 'til I thought of her leaving, and it made me hurt so bad... Never thought I'd hurt like that again." His voice trailed off miserably. _And how much more will it hurt now, if I'm too late?_

 

.

 

Snow had begun to fall harder as they sped southward towards their destination. Reggie's windscreen wipers held a rhythmic thumping counterpoint to the swishing hush of the cars and trucks they passed. The cabbie had tried to engage his fare in further light conversation, but Greg had sunk into an introspective silence at his thoughts of Anna, and whatever Reggie saw in his reflected face seemed to dampen his usual talkative instincts.

The DI stared out into the falling snow as the unfamiliar city blurred past; when he eventually realised that the blurring was in his eyes and not the glass, he turned further into the side window and brought one hand up to drag heavily across his face.

"Reggie—" He paused to clear his throat, pressing two fingers hard into the bridge of his nose. "How much further?"

"Not long now, sir," replied the older man, checking his side mirror before zipping into the other lane.

This brought him back to himself abruptly. "Don't 'sir' me. God, if there was ever a day I don't deserve it..."

"Hey, now. Beat yourself up later, if you must, man—but for now, it won't do your gal a bit of good. You know _exactly_ what you need to do."

Greg huffed out a breath that was a poor, pathetic imitation of a chuckle, and studied the man a moment. His jowly face was deeply lined in evidence of decades of smiling, though it was serious and intent now; his plaid flannel shirt was neatly buttoned up to the neck, and his thick, dull grey hair was neatly combed over a round thinning spot at the back of his head.

"You sure sound like you know what you're talking about. You've been in a situation like this yourself?"

"Nah, man, I've just read way too many Spider-Man comics." Reggie laughed softly, rubbing the back of one hand under his bulbous nose, before turning serious once more. "Though, there was this _one_ time, when I was seventeen... Nah. I'm no hero. Don't have the stomach for it, no siree. I know _people,_ though. Know when I'm driving my cab for a weak man, or a dishonest man, or a good man, or even a great one. And you, _sir,_ are gonna get to your lady love, and you're gonna make damn sure this guy gets what all's comin' to him. And then, you'll get back in my cab with your gal and introduce me. Capisce?"

Words eluded Greg for a few seconds, and before he could do more than blink hard and nod slightly, the phone trilled in his lap, twice in quick succession.

**I think we must be almost there, he's slowed down a lot and the road is rougher? *A***

**Have your cab pull into the vacant lot @ NW corner of the block, lights off, we'll assemble out of sight.**

 

.

 

Within another minute, Reggie's cab was making the final approach to their destination from the west, slicing speedily through the increasingly downtrodden streets of a South Side neighbourhood like a hot knife. Some of the streetlamps here were non-functional, and others seemed dim and yellowed with age; the patchy light illuminated tenacious flashes of life scattered amongst the crumbling brick buildings, overgrown lots and boarded windows. Greg noted and catalogued them absently through the side window as they jostled along over potholes.

_The corner grocery's seen better days but it's still warm and bright inside._

_That church looks freshly painted._

_The fenced play yard at that nursery school has brand new equipment._

As he allowed his mind to skitter lightly over the minor details of his surroundings, comparing them in flickering, formless snapshots to familiar boroughs back home, he found himself sinking finally into steady, calm alertness. His breathing had evened and deepened. The hand that had been clenched around his mobile was relaxed and still now on his knee; he'd sent one last brief reassuring text before slipping the device into his breast pocket, tucked up against his heart.

 

.

 

The taxi slowed at last, and Reggie flipped off the headlights before he pulled into a grassy vacant lot on the corner. They bumped up over small hillocks of brush as he parked alongside the gray sedan Greg recognised as Garvey's unmarked car. "Now," the driver told him, "I'll be waiting here for you. I'm clocking off for the night, so don't you worry about the fare, okay?"

Greg barely registered the man's kind words. He managed a short nod on his way out of the back seat, but his focus was pulled tight to the blond man approaching in the snowy semi-dark, and beyond him to the shadowed corner of the large building he saw looming down the other side of the street.

Detective Garvey wore his black wool coat—the style Greg had taken to thinking of as the "Chicago dress code", in the six days he'd spent in the city—but it hung open, and he had thrown his uniform ballistic vest on over a blue cotton Henley shirt and jeans. His face was pinched unpleasantly with worry, and the expression shifted oddly as Greg reached him.

"We came onto the lot lights-out, all from the northwest, and this old garage obscures the line of sight," said the detective, without preamble.

"Good," he replied curtly, not breaking stride. He was aware of Garvey out of the corner of his eye, turning to hurry along at his side as he marched across rutted grass and snow-drifted weeds towards the two patrol cars tucked up behind the ramshackle garage.

"How do you want to handle this?"

Glancing over at the younger man, he thinned his lips grimly. "You're asking me? I don't care what protocol you and your men follow, so long as I get to Anna first. I'd _love_ to personally beat the bloody hell out of this guy, of course, but I understand it's not on."

"It _is_ generally frowned upon..."

Before Garvey could say anything more, the determined DI had come abreast of the parked cruisers. What he wanted to do was keep going, just continue the diagonal line of his trajectory directly across the street and not stop, not hesitate, not _blink_ until he'd done what he was here for; but clear logic prevailed, after all. Pulling himself up short, he scanned the scene ahead of him for the few seconds it took to slowly clench and relax his hands once at his sides.

Echo Packing had been an impressive facility, once upon a time. The long, red brick building was of the Palazzo style, sporting tall, arched windows with hundreds of small panes, many now broken. Carved ornaments of pale stone, regularly spaced along the stately façade, stood out in the orange light of a single working streetlamp. Greg saw no movement along the front of the abandoned plant, no telltale light behind the mullioned glass, no vehicles parked along the kerb which ran mere feet away from the long face of the structure. As well, he saw no ready entrance, nor any driveway leading around the building; the stone archway that had originally provided ingress to the plant's workers was visibly bricked in.

 _He'll have another way inside, of course. So where's he gone?_ Scanning back along the structure to the northern corner, he picked out the dark, angular shape he'd missed on the first pass of his eyes, tucked in underneath a shadowy riot of old-growth trees along the left side of the building. It was almost completely hidden from the street, but years of tracking suspects made him sure—and _yes, there,_ at that moment the wind changed and gusted towards him in a sustained push, and a telltale cloud of exhaust emerged to confirm the location of the idling car.

Greg cocked his head over his shoulder to find that Detective Garvey stood a few paces behind him, speaking quietly to two uniformed officers. He caught the group's attention and gestured towards the stand of trees with a tilt of his head. "Have you seen any movement?"

"Not since he arrived, about a minute after I did, sir," said one of the patrolmen. "I've been watching for any interior lights to come on, but I don't think anyone has opened the door of the vehicle, and definitely not the trunk."

The "sir" was slightly easier to take from a fellow police officer than it had been from the cabbie, but it still seemed to rub uncomfortably across Greg's skin. He rolled his shoulders unconsciously against it, and turned back to the street. "We shouldn't wait any longer. She'd said he was telling someone to meet him here." _One car. If there's only one car I'm not too late._

Garvey nodded sharply. "All right. Saunders, Kline, let's do this."

They moved past him to quickly advance across the street, guns drawn; Greg considered it to his credit that he actually managed to hold himself back and give the two armed men a three-pace lead. He fell into step with the detective, his eyes fixed on the pale cloud that marked his goal.

In the next few seconds, time seemed to become an indistinct blur that swirled around him along with the thick snowflakes. The officers split to either side of the dark sedan, and their confrontation began with a shout while the DI stationed himself at the rear of the car. As much as Greg wanted to participate in collaring the kidnapper, he spared barely a glance for the stocky man being pulled from the vehicle, and the ensuing scuffle to subdue him. Instead, he kept one eye on the pale blond head that ducked quickly into the vacated driver's seat, and counted his hammering heartbeats until he felt the glorious pop of the trunk release under his spread palms.

He flung the lid wide, and his breath caught painfully as the trunk light came on. There she was, curled on her side, pale and squinting in the sudden brightness— _my darling, oh_ —her hair in all directions around her dirty tear-streaked face, one cheek rubbed raw, and smeared streaks of dark blood beneath her chin. She blinked once, twice, and offered up a tiny, shaky smile.

She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

 _"Anna._ Oh god."

Bending forward, he reached in and hooked hands beneath her armpits to lift her out; she stumbled up awkwardly from her knees and fell into his arms as he lowered her to the ground.

"I knew I could c-count on you, Greg," she whispered hoarsely, flinging her arms around his neck.

"Always, love, always. God, you're so cold! Here—" He reached between them and released the button of his overcoat, pulling her in against him and folding his lapels around her shivering back.

She nuzzled into his chest for a time, silently taking deep, shuddering breaths as she adjusted to being out of the confined space. Greg allowed himself a few seconds to simply marvel at the realness of her in his arms, revelling in the knowledge that she was alive and safe and _his;_ finally, he opened his eyes to see Garvey standing behind her.

Clearing his throat quietly, he nodded to the younger man, Anna's dishevelled hair tickling under his chin. "Detective. My thanks."

At his words, Anna shifted away from his embrace and turned to face her old friend. "Chaz, hey. Good to see you..."

With a little hiccuping smile to acknowledge her understatement, she stepped to him and gave him a hug. All the while, she kept one arm stretched out behind her, with a tight grip on Greg's left hand.

 

.

 

Anna came back to herself in stages; Greg watched in quiet awe as the distant look in her eyes slowly faded, and hints of warm wittiness began to come subtly back to her voice. As resilient as she seemed, though, she didn't let go of his hand once in that next two hours...not when a paramedic wrapped her in a shock blanket, not as the shallow slice under her chin was cleaned and bandaged, not as she gave her brief statement. Detective Garvey told them of the assistance he'd dispatched to Sherlock and John, having seen the missed text message just after having hung up with the DI; all the while they listened, her hand remained clasped to his as if to a lifeline, and Greg wasn't complaining a bit.

Later, bundled into the warm taxicab under Reggie's beaming supervision, Greg rested his cheek upon the top of her head where it lay on his shoulder. She was pressed into his side, her breathing slow and sleepy. He sent his eyes on a slow journey: caressing her shoulders, following the folds of orange fabric over her fuzzy black jumper, and finally tracing the shape of her delicate fingers locked into his.

Soon enough, they would return to reality; soon enough, they'd be back in Anna's car, on their way back to her home. She'd have to let go eventually, in order to drive, and he would probably call John to tell him what had happened—and to find out exactly what that lunatic Holmes had gotten them into. Then they'd need to scrounge up something for a late dinner, and...

_Soon. But not yet._

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of her sweet-smelling hair.

_Not yet._

 

\-----

 


	29. John - January 3-4

  
**29\. John - January 3-4**   


.

 

When their cab pulled up outside the now-familiar little house, John squinted out into the glare of noon sun on clean snow to see Greg out on the front walk; the DI was working industriously and methodically with a plastic shovel to clear the steps, his back to the street. Sherlock paid and exited the vehicle with a whirling flourish, and within seconds he was around to the opposite side, opening the door.

The protest was automatic. "I don't need help."

"Absurd," rejoined his companion; he stepped back a pace, though, and patiently waited until the doctor had made his own attempt to manoeuvre from the cab. Once John had successfully managed to both knock his wrapped ankle into the doorframe and twinge his bruised ribs, he came forward once again and extended his hand, along with a distinct told-you-so expression.

Huffing in frustration, John accepted the assistance. Once he'd gotten himself situated on his crutch, he began carefully making his way up the short walk; he was glad enough, then, that most of the pavement was freshly cleared. The injury to his ankle was less severe than he'd initially thought, and so he could rationalise using one crutch instead of two—being a doctor gave one great authority to compromise on one's own care, after all; but it had been years since the last time he'd actually needed to use aids, and no matter whether it was one or two, the skill was slow to return. It made him _incredibly_ cranky.

Absorbed in his work, Greg gave a start when they got within a few feet of him. "Oh! Morning, lads."

John smirked. "Practically afternoon, isn't it?"

"It may be, at that. Late night, last night," their friend replied blithely, with a tap to empty his shovel, before he did another double-take. "Oi, John! _You're_ in a sad state!"

"No _kidding,_ really? I told you as much last night, I'm fairly sure." He knew his tone was snappish, but just then he couldn't be arsed to care.

His expression slightly hurt, Greg opened his mouth to respond; Sherlock cut in smoothly. "Don't give Lestrade a hard time, he's had a lot on his mind. Here, let's go in." With that, he moved past them to the steps and offered his arm without comment.

Grimacing, John followed and took the help again; he could practically feel Greg's surprised stare from behind him. "Must you be so chivalrous? It's unnerving," he muttered under his breath.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and answered just as quietly as he held open the door. "I see no reason not to be; it makes a _stunning_ contrast to your intransigence."

Fighting to wipe the sour expression from his face, he limped inside to find Anna ensconced in the corner of the front room, working intently under the glow of her bright task lamp; she looked up in faint startlement from her stitching. "Has it got that late, already? Sorry, I got carried away here; I meant to make us something for lunch..."

"It's no problem. Really, I wasn't hungry just yet anyway," the doctor told her, settling carefully on the edge of the second armchair before she could set aside her work and rise. Once seated, he slowly worked out of his coat, handing it up to his waiting companion and pointedly ignoring the scolding look he earned for doing it on his own. He took a deep breath, covering a wince, and put on a little smile for Anna's benefit. "Here now. Let's see it, shall we?"

"Oh...yes, I guess so." She looked a bit embarrassed as she leaned forward, raising her chin to offer him access to the bandage taped there. "The paramedic told me it might not scar much. I didn't even know it had happened, I was too worked up to feel it 'til later. How are _you,_ though, John?"

"I'm fine."

Sherlock scowled from the entryway, hanging their coats with unnecessary force. "He's stubborn."

"I'm _fine._ I've had worse," he insisted, carefully peeling back the edge of the tape around the gauze pad.

"He's had worse, certainly; he's been shot, after all," the other man snapped, moving past them to pace irritably in the centre of the room. "I suppose anything less than bullet wounds counts as 'fine' from here on out, then?"

"Sherlock, just—" He hissed a little through his teeth, distracted, as the long, shallow cut was revealed. "Damn," he breathed.

Anna rolled her eyes downward to peer at his face. "What is it?"

"You're all right, sorry. Did the paramedic happen to tell you how lucky you are?"

At this, there was a rush of movement and Sherlock's face leaned in over his shoulder. John saw pale eyes widen from the corner of his own, before the taller man straightened abruptly and turned away.

Gently replacing the gauze and smoothing the tape down along her jaw, John patted her shoulder reassuringly. "The cut is well-placed. It's a very good thing that you stayed calm."

"What the ever-so- _tactful_ doctor is trying not to say is that had your assailant been an inch taller, or jostled a fraction to the right, he may have nicked an artery and killed you," Sherlock spat; he stalked to the far end of the room and flung himself onto Anna's sofa, his back to them.

Her head turned to follow the detective, eyes round and blinking hard. Placing her embroidery hoop down into a basket under the corner table, she looked back to John and swallowed.

He nodded, keeping his eyes gentle for her sake, even as he reeled a bit internally in tune with Sherlock's reaction. _Thank bloody Christ all this is over,_ he thought.

 

.

 

The mood had lightened not much later, over discussion of lunch; when Greg had suggested Anna not trouble herself with cooking for them, Sherlock had roused himself from his sulk enough to suggest a restaurant delivery website. She was skeptical about using such a service, but when the sleuth had pointedly emphasised the sorry state of half their party, she'd given in and had Greg bring out her laptop.

"Indian could be good," the DI suggested thoughtfully.

"I'd rather we didn't. Need I remind you, Lestrade, we're to be shut up on a plane for nine hours tomorrow?"

Pausing on his limping way across the room, John growled. "Sherlock, god! Was that really necessary?"

"Right, okay. No curry for John." Greg winked in his direction and scrolled down further.

Anna returned from the kitchen with an ice pack. She placed it on the little ottoman she scooted toward the sofa, then crossed to settle next to Greg on the loveseat. "Thai, maybe? Not curries?"

"I wouldn't mind that, if His Nibs doesn't have a _problem_ with it...oi, shove over, you!" John swatted at long legs until they lifted reluctantly, then spun on his good foot and levered himself down with the crutch, lifting his ankle onto the ice with a sigh.

Rather than sit up, his companion simply dropped the appendages unceremoniously into John's lap. Tilting his head further back on the armrest to shift his upended gaze from the ceiling to the pair at the window, he hummed—presenting his flatmate with an incredible view of a neck too long and gorgeous to be of this earth—and made a noise of reluctant interest. "Do they offer tamarind duck?"

John couldn't hold back the laugh. "The financier stuffed under the restaurant aquarium. Hah, now that was a post-case meal," he reminisced, squeezing Sherlock's shins fondly.

A tinkling noise sounded, and Anna smiled down at her phone. "Chaz wants to join us for lunch, is that all right with everyone?"

"I'd gladly buy that man a duck," said Greg, with a grin.

"Mm, no. He'll want pad kee mao with chicken. Not too spicy, remember the ulcer," murmured Sherlock, prompting a giggle from the woman.

 _He shows off that food-guessing thing so much more when she's around,_ John observed, with no small amusement. He exchanged a content smile with the DI; when Anna's texting exactly confirmed the deduction, their smiles grew wider still.

 

.

 

Detective Garvey arrived at two o'clock, minutes before their food was to come, bearing a small plastic bag. While Greg bustled about in the next room setting the table, he handed the bag over to Anna, then set about unfastening his uniform vest. "You forgot this last night. I thought you'd probably want it back, so I had it cleaned for you."

Anna opened the plastic and pulled out a familiar swath of silky purple knitting. "Oh, thank you _so_ much. But look what a mess I've made of it!" she fretted, rubbing fingers over a number of harsh snags and one large hole.

John came to her side to study the scarf more closely. "If you like I can take it back with me. I'm certain Mrs Hudson would be thrilled to repair her work, knowing it was part of what saved your life."

Biting her lip, she folded it carefully and placed it back in the bag. "Thank you, John."

 

.

 

Unique though it was in setting, company and continent, the meal was a shining example of a post-case feast. Chaz happily filled them in on the wrap-up of the arrests of both Arthur Crannock and his second local lackey, the kidnapper Denis Sawicki; he told them that the Art Institute's executive director had called an emergency board meeting to discuss the discovery of the secret rooms under their facilities. Sherlock was clearly transported by delight at his duck, and imperiously demanded that everyone try some, allowing each of them exactly one bite before hoarding the dish back to himself with a wicked, boyish grin. Greg passed cold bottles of Yuengling down the table to everyone, alternating between telling stories and proposing jovial toasts, his hand frequently straying to touch Anna and his smile growing in stages throughout the meal until it was near-incandescent.

For his part, John found himself floating on a wave of lightheaded happiness that completely erased his earlier walking-wounded tetchiness. As conversation and lager flowed easily around Anna's table, John thought of Sherlock's solicitous care of him since the night before, of the incredible revelations of the past few days, and of their conversation in the hotel lobby. _Secrecy,_ he remembered, watching Greg not-quite-sneakily caressing Anna's knee under the table to earn one of her bright, crystalline giggles. Maybe it was the fact that he was on his third beer—Chaz, being on a long lunch break, had surreptitiously passed his second bottle to John rather than interrupt the older man to refuse it—but he just couldn't see the validity anymore in that brief fancy of his.

Suddenly, he found he'd rather the exact opposite, in fact.

He waited until his partner had closed his eyes in bliss at a succulent morsel, and nonchalantly slipped a hand over to graze against the outer seam of his trousers, brushing delicately from mid-thigh to knee in a calculated move.

The sculpted jaw stopped mid-chew, and John watched in pleased fascination as the man's eyelids twitched very slightly. After a pause, Sherlock chewed once more and slowly swallowed, eyes still shut; it was then that John lightly dragged his short nails back up the same path, more slowly.

Sherlock's hand faltered, where it had frozen with fork hovering over his plate, and slowly lowered until the silverware clinked down and was released; his lips parted just a fraction.

Licking at his own lips, John watched all of this, and listened for the end of the next sentence—Greg asking Garvey's assistance in acquiring the mailing address of a cabbie—before speaking up.

"Excuse me, Greg?"

His partner's perfect eyes fluttered open and focused on him, confused, as the DI turned their way.

"Yeah, John?"

"Been meaning to tell you..." He put a question into the gaze he held, and twitched an eyebrow up. _Signals._

"All right, what's that then?"

He held the pause, and his breath too, until one corner of Sherlock's mouth turned ever so slightly upwards; the silver eyes blinked slowly in a clear assent.

Exhaling on a smile, he answered his friend: "I've got something to report."

With that, he reached up and carefully, deliberately sank fingertips into the curls at the base of Sherlock's neck, pulling him forward and down into a tender, thorough kiss that set his own face aflame.

When they broke apart—it must have been only a few seconds, but in his mind it felt as if he'd put on a five-act performance for the table—John turned to face the others with a slightly sheepish grin.

Chaz seemed confused, but pleasantly approving; Anna's eyes were bright, and she held two fingers at her widely smiling lips.

Greg Lestrade, on the other hand, was utterly _beaming._ "Well, what do you know! Bravo, you two!"

Before John could recover himself to do more than smile in response, he felt long, graceful fingers meshing easily with his own and pressing tight.

 

.

 

As their exuberant luncheon was winding down, a memory struck John suddenly; he squeezed his partner's hand briefly and leaned close to quietly speak. "Hey, Sherlock. The other day, didn't you tell me there was something you'd figured out, that you said could wait 'til after the case?"

The taller man straightened in his seat, glancing quickly across the table at Anna before giving a short nod. "You're right, John. I should show them." Reluctantly releasing the doctor's hand, he pushed out his chair and stood. "Anna, Detective Garvey; I believe you may both be interested to follow me."

The upshot of this sudden, mysterious declaration, of course, was that the entire group trailed after him and gathered in the bathroom. It wasn't a terribly small room, but with five adults the floor was crowded. Greg ended up pulling the curtain aside and stepping into the bathtub, standing behind Anna where she sat perched on the edge, his hands lightly resting on her shoulders.

His audience assembled, Sherlock had the grace to look a bit uncomfortable as he began his explanation. _And considering how upset Anna became the last time he spoke to her in here, I shouldn't wonder,_ thought John.

"You recall, Anna, that I had deduced your friend Andy had spent some...less than pleasant hours in this room, over the course of his last year." His usually clinical voice was muted and oddly hesitant; it was clear to John that he was trying desperately to avoid being indelicate.

Anna's lips tightened a bit, and she reached one hand up to touch Greg's at her shoulder, but she nodded for the sleuth to continue.

"I was unable to show this discovery to you at the time, without upsetting you further; before we return to London, however..." He abruptly crouched and then laid himself out flat on the shaggy bath rug, perpendicular to the toilet; John and Chaz had to shift quickly out of the way of his long legs as they extended across the room.

Brushing dark locks from his forehead, Sherlock turned his attention to the wall near his face and began scrabbling at a tile with his fingernails. "This is an interior wall abutting the kitchen; I noticed the irregular seam in the grout around this piece and realised that it was purposeful." Finally gaining purchase around the glossy green tile, he wiggled and slid it outwards; there was a sort of plug fashioned on the back of the ceramic, which fit to seal a square boxlike opening set into the drywall.

"What in the world...?" breathed Greg softly.

The detective pulled a series of items from the rectangular cache: a pencil that was well-chewed along its entire length, a small notepad of blank paper with many pages torn out, two slightly curled photographs, and a letter-size envelope. He set the pencil and pad beside the tile plug on the floor, and stood once more; Anna's eyes were wide and her face was pale as he solemnly handed the envelope over to her.

"Don't read the pages now, I shouldn't want to hear it. But he left this house to you, and whether or not he believed you would ever discover it—it's quite plainly meant as a message to you."

Mutely, Anna looked up to Chaz, and tilted the envelope so that he and John could see the pencilled name on its face. _'Gumball.' A private nickname for her?_ John guessed, and his supposition was confirmed by the way Garvey's expression changed, wrapping his arms around himself suddenly as if chilled.

The silence in the room was palpable; Sherlock turned, then, to the blond detective, holding up the pair of photographs. The first was a photo of a young brown-haired girl, of about age eight, caught in the midst of a game of tag with a laughing boy of the same age; he passed this back over his shoulder to Anna, and held the second picture out toward Chaz.

From John's position next to the other man, he could see that this photo showed a candid shot of Andy taken in a dormitory bedroom; the mirror on the closet door, partially obscured by camera flash, revealed the spiked white-blond hair and lean figure of the boy holding the camera.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Out of all the photos Andy was so careful to save, most of them feature friends and family, and relatively few include him at all that are not of groups or important events; he clearly preferred to be the photographer, and was reluctant to save any photographs that were only of himself. Obviously he was, on some level, uncomfortable with the outward persona he had adopted to deal with others," he said, throwing a mildly sympathetic look in Anna's direction. "This photo of himself, then, being of poor quality and dubious importance, was saved entirely for the image of the young man using the camera. And that, of course, would be you, Charles."

Chaz took the offered photograph delicately between shaking fingers. "He told me he'd burned all his photos of us," he murmured breathily, looking for a moment far more like the waifish student in the picture than the uptight, serious man they'd met that week.

Sherlock turned back abruptly to Anna, his face almost expressionless; John could tell his range of sentiment didn't extend much further than offering this slight courtesy to someone for whom he had no real affection. _But he made a point of it, because he knew it would mean more to Anna that way. Damned if he doesn't try._

 

.

 

"John? John!"

"Wha...?" He rolled his head woozily from his pillow, then jerked awake to sit up with a gasping start.

"I've never seen you sleep so deeply, it must be your pain medication."

"Well, it's probably long overdue, isn't it," John grumbled, rubbing his eyes and trying to bring focus to the dark silhouette perched at the edge of his vision. The hotel room was _far_ too bright for his tastes.

Sherlock sniffed, and John felt the mattress shift beneath him. "Don't be such a grouch. You really are quite an awful patient; it's lucky I'm more often the one injured of the two of us."

"Lucky?" John swatted at the blurry shape with a scowl, but the other man was already standing and swirling his coat across the room. "I wouldn't joke about that, if I were you. And you're no picnic when you're out of sorts, either!"

"Yes, yes. We can discuss my inadequacies at length later, John. I'm already nearly done packing your things for you, but you really must consider getting up shortly; you're bound to be slow in the bath with that ankle, and we're running out of time."

He yawned, blinking the room into focus at last. "You're _packing_ for me?"

"Yes, of course. It's not as if it's extraordinarily difficult. Up now, come _on!"_

 

.

 

Since their little talk in the warehouse two nights before, John had been much more mindful of keeping things light where possible. Aside from the aberration of asking for the symbolic kiss in front of their friends, he'd kept his affections subtle and chaste, unless the other man initiated contact—a tactic that seemed to be paying off in keeping his partner comfortable. He skirted invisible boundaries, watching Sherlock's reactions to every gradually added gesture as if he were caring for a skittish wild animal. _Not a perfect metaphor, but not far off, at that; possibly some sort of reclusive feline,_ he told himself with fond amusement, as he watched the man preen distractedly at his glossy hair in the mirrored wall of the descending lift.

"So, you stayed out of the room all last night," John commented, putting on an unaffected air in an attempt to cover his curiosity.

Sherlock shrugged elegantly, meeting his eyes in the reflection. "You needed rest. I had things to do."

"I expected you'd be out like a light, after the meal and all that company."

"I thought it prudent to wait. Which, obviously, it was; we'd never have been ready to check out on time otherwise, would we? Besides, it'll be far more pleasant to sleep at home." He adjusted the strap of John's laptop satchel over his shoulder, and returned his free hand to the pull-handle of the rolling case at his feet.

"Well, I suppose you can always get some rest on the plane."

"I never sleep on planes. Not since Manila."

"What?"

"Never mind." His cloud-blue gaze dropped away from the mirror, and closed itself off in that maddening way it had: suddenly, Sherlock Holmes was very far away.

 _Another item pending deletion?_ His stomach dropping faster than the numbered floors, John watched him for a second, and wondered whether he would ever really be allowed in. Then he thought about the few breadcrumbs of information he'd been given, in regards to those three absent years...both the new admissions of the past few days, and before: when even the slightest mention of what Sherlock had gotten up to after faking his own death had felt like ripping the wound of John's betrayed heart open anew. _The way his face shifts, like he wants to hide from me. No—like he wants to hide from himself. God._

Their lift lurched to a stop and opened on the bright, modern lobby; Sherlock was through the doors almost faster than they could part, advancing in long strides on the unsuspecting concierge at the counter. It was a wonder, actually, that he hadn't caught a piece of their luggage on the moving bumpers and gone down in a heap: John attempted to picture it, as he carefully swung his crutch and bad leg together out onto the glossy marble tile.

Somehow, even the mental image of his flatmate sprawled on the floor under his suit bag, all elbows and rumpled coat, managed to be gracefully condescending. John gazed ahead at the real Sherlock—standing at the counter, stiff-necked and eyes narrowed, probably saying something abominable to the poor man just trying to do his job—and couldn't resist a smile.

 

.

 

In the next hour and a half, their last meal in Chicago with Anna and Greg and the following drive back to the airport seemed, to John, suffused with the surreality and subtle tension of pending travel. The sun glinted coolly from the surfaces of the still-unfamiliar city, and everything John saw and heard that afternoon seemed to underline the foreignness of it all. They filled their time with the usual sorts of conversation and small talk, and with Lestrade's particular brand of rough-edged and harmless jokes, which often seemed calculated to purposely provide Sherlock the opportunity to counter with cutting remarks. Every now and then, though, a meditative silence would fall over the group, as if they were all considering how the past week had changed them.

They made the final approach to the airport dropoff, and conversation devolved into the typical last-minute confirmations and assurances, as everyone felt the press of time more keenly; finally, while they were unloading the trunk, Anna presented John with a small shoebox.

"Stop worrying, I already knew to leave room for it," Sherlock told him, before he could say anything; the detective was already crouching to unzip John's rolling suitcase.

Baffled, John opened the box to find five bubble-wrapped jars. "Jam?"

"Concord grape; the best I could find," Anna smiled, hugging him carefully around the crutch and his tender side.

He squeezed her tight, burying his face in her brown hair for just a moment. "Thank you, Anna, for everything," he said quietly at her ear. "When will you come back to us?" _Meaning: when will you come back to be with Greg? I'm certain in a few weeks, he'll be perfectly miserable._

"Oh, I don't know. I'm not ready to go flying off around the world again anytime soon, I don't think. But maybe in the late spring or early summer?"

"Right, then, we'll hold you to that, shall we?" John straightened and gave her a wink, then turned to shake Greg's hand. "Enjoy the rest of your holiday, mate."

"I will, no question about it. See you in another two weeks; take it easy, and don't get in any more trouble 'til I'm back, yeh?"

They exchanged a grin, turning together to see Anna finish exchanging quiet words with Sherlock; she rose onto her toes and threw her arms about his shoulders. After a second's awkward pause, he tentatively returned the hug, eyes wide.

 

.

 

Sherlock had the amber skull out, fiddling it around his right hand like a worry stone, flipping it back and forth and smoothing his thumb over the golden-flecked mandible. He'd been repeating the small motions for forty minutes, by John's count; the pattern was starting to burn an asymmetrical rhythm into his brain that was distracting him from the forgettable thriller he'd purchased at the terminal newsagent. _(Flip, turn, pet, twist; flip, turn, rub, rub, pet, twist; flip...)_

Sighing, he twisted slightly in the small airline seat— _still in coach, more's the pity_ —and studied his partner's profile, edged sharply by the yellow glow of the overhead reading light. "Sherlock?"

"Mm?" _(Flip, turn, pet, twist.)_

"When we get home..."

"Yes?" _(Flip, turn, rub, rub, pet, twist.)_

_Will things be completely different?_  
 _Will you help me figure out what you need?_  
 _Will you ever talk to me about the things that make you so far away?_

Luminous eyes turned to examine him. _(Flip, turn.)_ "John?"

He swallowed and finished his question. "Would you play that carol for me, one more time?"

 

\-----

 


	30. Anna -  January 4

  
**30\. Anna - January 4**   


.

 

"So."

"So?"

"Just the two of us, then."

"Uh-huh." Anna looked over to the man in her passenger seat; he faced the side window, scanning over the distinctive warrens of townhouses and apartment buildings visible from the highway as the downtown skyline rose ahead of them. "It feels a little weird, doesn't it?"

He turned back to her, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "It does, a bit. You, too?"

She chuckled quietly, tapping on her brakes as the worsening traffic ahead halted yet again. "I don't know why it should, exactly. But...yeah. It's like, what next?"

"No more dead bodies, for one," Greg said, with a little smile.

"No more ferrying John and Sherlock around the city," she agreed.

"No more worrying about your safety." He reached across to gently touch her knee, and she moved her right hand from the wheel to lock her fingers into his.

"Mm...no." They inched forward in a moment of thoughtful silence, both drawn to study the giant bottles of salad dressing colourfully emblazoned across the back of the truck they followed.

"I'm sorry, Anna," he eventually muttered.

"Hey. Stop that. I mean it." She squeezed his hand hard and released it, switching hands on the wheel to fiddle ineffectually with her side mirror controls. "You're no more to blame than Sherlock, or anyone. You know that. And I—I saw the car, _before,_ I know I did. I should have noticed, should've said something! If it's anyone's fault—"

"Hush. You couldn't have known. Don't beat yourself up, now."

"My point, exactly!"

Chastened by her sharp glance, he fell back to his silent contemplation of the salad dressing.

The traffic kicked into brief motion and stopped twice more before Anna quietly spoke again, her eyes fixed on a vehicle in the next lane.

"I told John I didn't know."

"Love?"

The tiny charms tinkled around her left wrist as she brushed briefly at the gauze near her throat. "That I'd been cut."

"Why?"

 _Why?_ She bit at her lip. "I don't know. I knew, of course I did. Maybe not in the first minute or two. But by the time I got my hands free..."

 _I smeared blood across the display of my phone, right across your name. Rubbed the screen on my jeans while I waited for your text. The colder I got, the more it stung. I was afraid to touch it._ Out loud, she simply hummed an uncomfortable little noise. "I don't know why."

"Oh, Anna." His voice was small and sad. She couldn't bring herself to look over.

The traffic twitched ahead. Somewhere in the distance, two car horns blared a dissonant chord.

When Greg's warm, blunt fingers brushed her hair aside to rest feather-light at the crux of her shoulder, she closed her eyes for just a second. The threat of tears passed quickly; she swallowed it down, pulled her lips into a slight smile for his benefit, and returned her focus to the crowded road ahead.

After they finally made it back from the airport, Greg stopped her just inside the front door and took her coat gently from her shoulders, gathering her close for a kiss that gradually stole her breath away. The deep brown eyes he fixed on hers were liquid, and almost painfully worshipful, as he lifted her gently into his arms and bore her down the hall slowly. The late afternoon sun passed in and out of the broken clouds, sending a syrupy red-orange glow through the patterned curtains of her bedroom; the light against the walls brightened and dimmed and brightened again, and blurred into wet, fiery sparks that slid unheeded down her cheeks as she repeated his name.

 

.

 

By sundown, Anna had regained her equilibrium; they sat together at the table, contentedly sharing a little bowl of peanut butter filled pretzels and looking through local movie listings on her computer.

Greg slung his left arm low around her waist and rested his head against her shoulder to see the laptop screen. He pointed at a title with his free hand. "Maybe this one?"

"Nah, Tom Cruise doesn't do it for me."

He snorted and dropped a smiling kiss on her arm. "Me neither, to be honest..."

She shook with a silent giggle and scrolled down further. "Oh look, I didn't know this one was already playing! It must have opened over the weekend."

"Well. We _were_ a bit busy at the time, love."

"Yeah...I don't suppose Sherlock would have liked to go and see a rom-com with us, huh?"

It was Greg's turn to shake with laughter. "Now that's an image! He wouldn't make it ten minutes in, but the running commentary would be bloody _brilliant,_ wouldn't it, 'til we all got kicked out!"

"I can just hear it now. 'That actress has _clearly_ just returned from a sexual encounter off-set in the hair and makeup trailer, she hasn't even fixed her collar properly before filming the scene, it's obvious,' " she complained, deepening her voice into a comical impersonation of their friend.

"Hah!"

They dissolved together into gales of laughter, clutching at each other and wheezing; every time Anna began to catch her breath, the imagined sight of Sherlock frowningly berating an usher would set her off all over again.

Their mirth was interrupted by the chime of an incoming chat request. Still gasping and hiccuping, Anna clicked "accept" without giving it a second thought, pulling Greg in close to her and answering the video call with a wide grin.

"Hey Ryan, Happy New Year honey! What's up?"

"Happy New—Holy shit, Anna, your neck! What happened?"

She and Greg both froze mid-chuckle, and Anna felt the smile shake and slide off her face. _Oh, crap!_ For a mortifying second, Anna's brain ran instinctively through a short range of ridiculous excuses—all highly illogical. _I was in a freak ice skating accident? I fell on a glass coffee table? A cat scratched me?_ It was distressing, really, how quickly such old, habitual patterns automatically came to mind merely at the sight of a family member.

Greg's hand fell onto her shoulder and squeezed once, reassuringly. Exchanging a quick look with him, she swallowed and prepared to face the music.

"Ah. Um. Okay, Ry, promise not to freak out, all right? I'm fine, everything is fine. But, umm...there's been a lot going on..."

Her brother's face shifted suspiciously as he waited for her to collect her thoughts.

"See, there was this guy. The owner of that art gallery, I told you about the gallery, right? Right." She found herself unable to speak concisely, without babbling; a sure sign of nerves. _Just spit it out, Anna!_ "So, last Saturday, uh...we found him dead in my U-Haul."

"You _what?"_

"Stabbed to death on the porch, and dragged up into the lorry," Greg volunteered, not at _all_ helpfully.

"The fuck? And you didn't think to, I don't know, call your family?"

She shrugged guiltily. "Yeah, um. It was pretty weird here for a few days. We were all kinda busy, after Sherlock arrived."

"Wait. That's that detective, right? The one you guys are always talking about?"

Greg took that question. "Right, you see, it turns out this gallery owner was involved with an international art crime ring. Sherlock had already been after the group back in London, so of course as soon as he heard, he and John flew in straight away."

"Okay, so, my sister spent the past week chasing murderers with you, and got hurt." Ryan ran fingers through his curly brown hair, looking seriously confused.

"Not exactly," responded both Anna and her boyfriend, simultaneously. They shared another brief glance, and Anna turned back to the screen to speak.

"Two nights ago, I was sort of...kidnapped..." She trailed off slightly, as if keeping the emphasis out of her voice would prevent her brother from reacting badly.

Ryan was silent for a few long seconds. His eyes on the screen focused quite clearly on her companion; Greg's fingers tightened almost painfully on Anna's shoulder as the two men communicated silently, until she raised a hand to remind him of her presence with a gentle touch.

"Look, Ryan, I realise that doesn't sound good. Truth is, it wasn't," Greg admitted gruffly, removing his hand and leaning in past her toward the laptop screen. "Believe me when I tell you, the three of us—Sherlock, John and I—had been doing all we could to assure Anna's safety. This man and his accomplice had been following her, for weeks, it appears; it was the twist of hard fate that none of us sussed it out in time, and she ended up alone on that street at just the wrong moment."

The younger man's lips moved, and Anna began to say something too, but Greg kept going; his brows knitted as he spoke, and he laced his fingers together on the table. "I let my guard down while the lads were occupied—they were in the midst of capturing the mastermind of the organisation at the time, but that's neither here nor there. If I'd been slower getting out of the shops, or if I'd decided to take a table in the restaurant to wait, or if I hadn't caught the cab I had—bloody _hell._ Fact is, Ryan, I _do_ blame myself; and I shan't be surprised if you do, too."

"Greg! It was _not_ your fault, stop it. Please, please stop it?" She was completely unconcerned at this point by the presence of the webcam; she turned away from the computer to face him fully, and took up his clasped hands in hers.

"Darling, if I hadn't gone to help Sherlock in the car park, if I'd just gone with you to the chemist's and then we'd had dinner..." He looked up at her with pleading eyes.

"Then that Sawicki guy would have kept biding his time, and who knows if he would have stopped stalking me once Crannock was arrested," she reasoned, her voice urgent. "He still thought I was the key to drawing Drew from hiding. And for all we know, he was aware that Drew was the money man, the source of Crannock's funding; with the boss out of the picture, who's to say that he might not have waited 'til the three of you left, and come for me then?"

Greg's jaw dropped, and he shook his head slightly in amazement. "Oh my god, Anna."

She continued, holding his gaze earnestly. "You, you were perfection, you figured out what happened and you were halfway to tracking me down before I even called for help. I was only truly alone for ten minutes; all the rest, well, it wasn't fun—but I knew you were coming, Greg, I held on to that and I had total faith in you. You will _always_ be my hero, love. And if I can't blame myself for going off on my own, then god damn it, you can't either for letting me..."

There was an abrupt throat clearing behind them, bringing their attention back to the monitor. Ryan wore a clear expression of disbelief. "You guys...wow. I'll tell you, I have no idea what you're talking about. But damn, Anna, you sure take all this crime stuff in stride, don't you?"

Her face heated. "Ryan, it's a—"

"Long story, yeah. I get it. One of these days you're gonna have to sit me down and draw me diagrams, or whatever. But oh, man." He broke into a chuckle, shaking his head. "I have to admit, I wondered at first—how you would be a good match for a cop. No offense," he amended himself, glancing to Greg with a slight wince.

"None taken," allowed the older man, leaning back into his chair and crossing his arms.

"I might take some," Anna grumbled quietly.

Her brother smirked, tilting his head quizzically. "Now, come on. You know what I mean, Banana. You were married to a pharmacist, you worked as a file clerk in an insurance office; the most exciting thing you ever seemed to be interested in involved your needles and thread! And then you go off overseas for a few months, and the next thing I know you come back and you're telling me all this stuff about detectives, and forgeries, and sneaking people past security guards..."

Anna leaned sideways into the comforting warmth of her partner, rolling her eyes a bit.

"But now," he continued, "I'm seeing the two of you together, rattling off details at each other like—I don't know, like I'm sitting here watching an episode of NCIS or something—and all I can think is, you're alive, Anna."

Her hand went reflexively to her throat. "Yeah, like I said, I'm fine—"

"I don't mean that. I mean, it's like you're more intense, you're more involved, you're more _you._ My big sister...is actually pretty damn awesome."

Greg's arm slipped around her waist, and he spoke with pride in his gravel-tipped voice as he pulled her in closer. "She really, really is."

 

.

 

_"...Don't move."_

Anna shook herself awake with a quiet gasp, rising on her elbows to stare into the dark. A line of cool light curled sinuously under the curtained window beyond the foot of her bed; the first full moon of the year had risen in a cloudless sky and brightened the bedroom to a dull, thick gray. She traced and re-traced the darker shapes of the shelving unit and the mirrored dresser on the far wall with wide eyes, as she waited out the thumping of her heart.

 _It's fine, it's fine. Everything is fine,_ she repeated silently, holding herself perfectly still until she felt calm. Shaking her head to clear it of the lingering image, she slid back down on a long, slow breath, curling onto her right side and pulling the blanket back up to her chin.

Her eyes remained open, though, and she gazed ahead to the sleeping man sharing her bed. In the faint moonlit glow, she could see a curve of shoulder and the shadow of the back of his head on the pillow. Her mind easily filled in the details invisible in the dark: the enticing slip of his spine between the strong shoulder blades she loved to touch, the short, silver-shot hair at the nape of his neck, the thin, sweet curve of his earlobe, and the base of the jaw she knew would be roughened ruggedly by stubble at this time of night.

As she watched, Greg snorted softly in his sleep and twitched, rolling over with a muffled exhalation and settling half onto his stomach, facing her.

Wetting her lips, Anna happily took the opportunity presented and edged forward, carefully insinuating her arm under his. She was rewarded with another quiet sigh, as he automatically shifted further and pulled her in close.

"Mm," he mumbled, barely audible. "Luv." Warm breath ghosted over the crown of her head as she snuggled in, closing her eyes contentedly.

Secure in the cozy embrace, she let her mind wander over the plans they'd tentatively made together for the remainder of their holiday. _If the weather's going to stay nice through the end of the week, we should buy the tickets tomorrow for the guided Frank Lloyd Wright tour,_ she thought, stifling a little yawn against his chest. _Oh, and there's the Art Institute too..._ Her lips curved into a slight smile. _We'll wait till next week for that, I think. John said that falling sculpture made a huge mess, better give them time to get things straight..._

Anna's thoughts turned back, briefly, to skirt the edges of the dream that had woken her. _Wonder how long I'll have that awful man in my head?_ Even knowing it could have been so much worse, and having assured everyone repeatedly she was fine— _and I am! I'm fine, damn it_ —well, it was still a bit distressing to wake with that rasping laugh echoing in her ears. She supposed it was only to be expected, for a few days at least. Best to just ride it out, and enjoy the comforting presence of her lover while she had it.

Greg shifted once more against her, pushing a knee to brush lightly between hers and tipping his chin drowsily into her hair. "Mm, hey," he breathed, his voice thick and raspy with sleep. "Stoppit..."

Her eyelashes brushed against his skin as she opened them, surprised. "What?"

"Stop...thinkin' so loud. 'M here." Another yawn gusted past her ear. "I gotcha."

She smiled at the languid kiss he pressed into the top of her head, and returned the gesture in kind to the soft plane of his chest. "You do," she whispered.

Drifting back toward sleep in the protective circle of his strong arms, listening to the calming thud of the heartbeat at her ear, she held on tightly to that thought.

_You've got me._

 

\-- _fin_ \--

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks and praise go once again to mrv3000, who generously gives me the advice and confidence boosters I need to make this happen! :)


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